


It's not like I believe in everlasting love.

by barthelme



Series: Turned out I'd been following him and he'd been following me. [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Sex, Liz is more forgiving than she should be, M/M, Nick is not a lifesaver, Photographer Armie, Slow Burn, Student Timmy, awkward everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2019-08-28 12:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 62,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16723290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme
Summary: Armie becomes infatuated with Timmy, a young neighbor in his apartment building.





	1. Part One.

**Author's Note:**

> Timmy is under eighteen in flashbacks, but there is nothing except neighborly run-ins and poor, one-sided attempts at flirting by Timmy during those flashbacks. Also, I'm momentarily done deleting fics I don't like and now I'm going back to writing things I actually enjoy writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you times a million to dreamofhorses for sitting on a washing machine at eight in the morning so I could properly imagine armie and timmy's heights.

The kiss isn't even good. 

It's _fine_ considering the circumstances, but it's not how Armie imagined their first kiss. Well, he hasn't exactly imagined their first kiss or even speculated there might be one. From afar--of even close up--Armie has kept his distance. Kept his hands to himself and his thoughts muted. Before bed he would read until his eyelids were heavy or watch late night shows, falling asleep not long after the opening monologues. And if by chance he saw the kid and thought anything except, "Oh, there's my neighbor's son," he'd ask a question to remind himself that his neighbor's son was seventeen. Sixteen when Armie moved in. He'd ask a question like, "How's school going?" or "Have you passed your driving test yet?" But school was always "fine" and Timmy passed his test on the third try. 

Either way, the questions would remind Armie that he was dealing with a high school student and Armie would spend the rest of the day or night mentally scolding himself, even though his thoughts were nothing sinister, nothing lewd. Rarely more than, "He is an attractive person," and really, where is the fault in that? It was just an observation, just as his current observation that this is not how he would have planned their first kiss _had he even thought_ about their first kiss, which he hasn't. Ever. 

But the kiss's skill level has little to do with Armie and everything to do with Timmy being slightly wine drunk and overconfident. There's a chance he is more than slightly wine drunk; Timmy's mom is known in the building for being fairly heavy-handed with the bottle and very liberal with her parenting. In a good way, not in a way that brings judgement. A way that has made Armie jealous on more than one occasion and for multiple reasons. 

So, it is entirely possible that Timmy is more than slightly wine drunk. Pushing the limits on the definition of wasted, but either way, Timmy leans forward and because Armie has eyeballs and a basic concept of spacial awareness, he knows it will be a disaster. And it is, especially when Timmy face plants into Armie's sternum, body sliding off the washer until Armie hooks his left hand under Timmy's thigh and hauls him backwards. Opens his mouth to say something like, "It's not even midnight," or "Do I need to carry you to your bed? Tuck you in safely?" 

But he never gets a chance to say anything, because Timmy calculates the height difference this time and leans up without warning. Slips his tongue past Armie's parted lips and traces a line along the roof of his mouth, a touch so soft it sends a wave of tremors down Armie's spine, into the backs of his knees. Settles in the arches of his feet, until it's erased by Timmy's teeth on his lower lip, by harsh suction and hands fisting in Armie's worn t-shirt, pulling him closer. Making his knees bang into the front of the washer, the metallic clang echoing through the concrete laundry room. 

And that is how the _fine_ kiss happens. Fifteen minutes before midnight on New Year's Eve, with Timmy wearing a crooked 2014 crown and sweatpants that hide nothing, sitting on a broken washer, while Armie tries to maneuver him backwards with one arm, the other hand gripping his liquid fabric softener. The smell of _outdoor fresh_ , whatever that is, thick in the air. Just two guys, fumbling in a basement laundry room after one made the comment, "You know, I turned eighteen on Friday," without looking up from his phone. Adding, "Isn't that what you've been waiting for?" when Armie looked up from his dryer and shoved the last armful of wet clothes inside. Slammed the door. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Armie asked. Set the timer and pressed start, the low whir of the dryer quickening and starting to shudder against the uneven concrete floor. "Waiting for what?"

Timmy pocketed his phone, shifting to his left to slide it in his back pocket. He looked over and shrugged a shoulder; he didn't smirk but Armie could tell he was suppressing the urge. "Me to be legal or whatever." 

"You to be legal or whatever," Armie had repeated. Taken a few steps forward Timmy and stood in front of him. Debated the space between them, knowing there would be no backing up and running away if he took a step forward and put himself within touching distance. 

And he was right. He knew he would be, but the confirmation is found in Timmy's leg wrapping around Armie's thigh, head tilting slightly to the side to better slot their mouths together, and throat muffling a dull but frightening moan. 

Later, Armie will balance his laundry basket on his hip as he walks Timmy back to his apartment and the building will shake with cheers and shouts of "Happy New Year!" and Armie half expects Timmy to demand another kiss. To push him against the wall, underneath one of the dim lights that make everything look like a thriller after the sun sets, and force their swollen lips together once more. To say something cheesy like, "Kiss me, you fool," or something else a teenager might be thinking. But he doesn't. He stops and points at Armie. Asks, "You're a photographer, right?" Continues without receiving an answer, "Because I need my senior head shots redone. The first batch were shit. I'll have my people talk to your people," he winks and Armie laughs. Laughs because Timmy's "people" is his mom and Armie's "people" is himself, probably ambushed by Nicole in the mail room.

"I don't do head shots," Armie said, but he knows it sounds exactly like, "Okay, sure."

Later, Timmy will slip back to his family's party, leaving Armie alone in the hall with his cooling laundry. But right now, Armie pulls back. Sets the fabric softener next to Timmy so he can bracket his hips with both hands, ensure he's steady on the washer before leaning back in for a better kiss. The way their first kiss should have been.  
_____

Armie is hardly a photographer, not anymore, and he's never more aware of that than when Nick is rearranging overly ornate furniture in a room. Pushing a chaise lounge under one of the studio's skylights because Liz insists on natural light when possible. "The whole point is to make it look natural," she'd explained when Armie wanted to cover the skylights and purchases more studio lights so he could have better control. All the control. "To enhance what their partner is already attracted to, Armie. Naturally."

"Is that why they spend an hour with the glam squad before they step foot in here?" he'd asked, and she'd thrown a gaudy pillow at his head. 

Right now, Liz is nodding towards Nick. "Good, good," she says. "Cynthia--the client's name is Cynthia--is a bit self conscious about her stomach, which is silly if you ask me because she looks gorgeous, so I thought we could--"

Armie twists his lens into place and smirks. He knows as well as Liz that Cynthia can hear them in the next room. It's part of Liz's strategy to get natural, confident pictures every time. She's probably right; most of the women (and the men, though they are few and far between) who walk onto the set have nothing to be self conscious about. It's mind over matter and the sneaky compliments seem to help, especially if the awards have anything to say about it. Best Boudoir Studio three years running. 

When Armie looks up, Liz has shooed Nick out of the way and is pushing the lounge around inch by inch, then backing up to examine it before moving back to pull it back half the distance. "Just when you think you've made it through Christmas without harming yourself, Cupid peaks his fucking chubby cheeks around the corner and I just--" Nick mimics shooting himself in the temple and fakes an open mouthed smile at Armie, who chuckles and leans back on his stool. "She's crazy."

"Yeah, but she's good," Armie reminds him. "She's very good," he reminds himself as she strides across the room to grab some pillows. "Christ, Liz, Cynthia is going to need one of those for a nap if you don't hurry up."

"I'm going to need a drink if you two don't--" she trails off as she starts fluffing the pillows. 

Nick sighs and sinks to the floor. Stretches his legs out and touches his toes, then sits back. "I think I'm still a bit drunk. Speaking of which, you should also still be a bit drunk, except you were a no-show."

Armie licks his lips and thinks of wine-stained teeth and _outdoor fresh_. "Yeah, there was a thing at the apartment."

Nick looks up and squints. "A thing? At the apartment? Do you live at like, an assisted living place now, Grandpa? Since when do you do _things_ at the apartment?" There isn't an answer in Armie's mind so he just shrugs and watches Liz admire her work, which she is technically paying Nick to not do. Lets Nick badger him even further. "Unless you were _doing_ a thing at your apartment and that _thing_ just happened to have nice legs." 

Armie straightens his spine and inhales at the thought of Timmy's legs. How easily they had wrapped around Armie's hips, drawing him closer. How Armie had to make a point of keeping his distance, making sure he was close but just far enough away. Just out of reach of another step, another leap. "It wasn't anything. Just didn't want to go out," which isn't a lie. He hasn't lied at all, actually. 

"Really?" Nick asks, and Armie knows he wants to pry. One of Nick's favorite things to do is pry, even if it's for Armie's own good.

Liz claps her hands together and nods approvingly at the lounge. Swipes some nonexistent dust off the pillows and then calls out, "Cynthia, we're ready when you are, Darling!" before snapping her fingers towards Nick and Armie in a gesture they both know to mean 'Look alive.'

Armie stands and nods, "Really. I'd tell you if there was something going on again, okay?"

And Nick claps Armie on the back before making himself scarce in the prop corner. Armie steps forward as a woman wearing a black silk robe enters the room, her hair in soft waves and lips red. Liz moves to introduce them and starts to explain how the shoot will go and Armie smiles, nods. Tries to block out the memory of Timmy's swollen, pink lips, parted and pleading him for more. For anything, for everything, for things Armie couldn't give him. Wouldn't give him.

"Are we ready?" Liz asks Cynthia, and when the woman removes her robe, Armie smiles to himself. He was right; Cynthia has nothing to be self conscious about.  
_____

Armie kept his distance and kept his thoughts innocent. He did nothing wrong, and he knows this; it's not just something he tells himself to sleep at night. The closest he came to even toeing the line was wondering, "I wonder if that's his girlfriend?" when he saw Timmy let a girl in one day. She was pretty; blond and slight. She'd kissed his cheek, but he had only returned the gesture by nuzzling his forehead against her shoulder and seeming to breathe her in. "Probably a friend," Armie thought, and that was the end of it.

But he had ignored everything, starting with their first interaction, when Timmy brought over brownies. Armie had moved in days before and was startled when he opened the door to a brunette who looked bored, even though he could only have been at Armie's door for mere moments. The boredom went away when he looked up, further than he'd probably anticipated, and let his eyes land on Armie. Armie didn't want to match an adjective to the expression, but he wanted it to go away. "My mom made these for you," the kid said, pushing the tray forward. "She makes great brownies. I'm Timothée, but," and then his face had morphed again and Armie liked that expression even less. "Feel free to call me Timmy." 

Armie accepted the brownies and said, "Tell your mother I said thanks, Timothée," and then all but slammed the door. At the time, there'd been enough to deal with. The brownies were delicious, though. 

And he ignored how Timmy would linger in the lobby when Armie was coming home. How he would look up and smile, say something innocent like, "How was work, Armie?" in a way that wasn't innocent at all. He ignored every 'random' hallway encounter, every not-so-casual attempt at eye-contact, and every single suggestion that became stronger and bolder the closer Timmy got to turning eighteen. 

Armie doesn't feel ashamed, but he is embarrassed by how quick he was to change. How easy it was for Timmy to announce his birthday (which Armie didn't even know, and how stupid could he be to just _believe_ him?) and for Armie to let every wall down and let all the subtle hints at Timmy's humor flood his senses. Every inkling he'd had that Timmy was more than a handsome face filled his mind with desire for conversation, for small talk, for any form of communication. How that combination pushed him over the edge, pushed him into Timmy that easily, when in reality, it was still too soon. Too soon for Armie, even if Timmy wasn't in the equation, and definitely too soon for Timmy, who probably hadn't even made a decision on colleges yet. 

Who wasn't even in college yet. 

Jesus Christ.  
_____

On Wednesday, Timmy's mom sneaks up on Armie in the mail room. "Armie!" she says and touches his elbow when he turns. He feels as though he should slouch to be closer to her, but he doesn't. He straightens his posture. "Timmy said he talked to you about retaking some of his head shots. The school said that--" and Armie nods, half listens as Nicole explains that the school is being rather particular about head shots this year. Mainly he glances behind her to where Timmy is loitering in the hall, leaning against the wall and scrolling through his phone. Doing a terrible job at sneaking a glance at Armie and, once caught, Timmy, brings a thumb to his mouth and worries the skin between his teeth. Locks his gaze on Armie and cants his hips forward. Armie really needs to tell him to stop wearing those sweatpants.

"Does that work for you, Armie?" Nicole asks, and Armie mentally curses Timmy. 

He looks back at Nicole, who is smiling up at him, expecting an answer. Expecting a positive answer. He wants to say, 'I don't really do head shots,' but instead says, "Yeah, definitely."

"Perfect!" she says and squeezes his elbow before calling behind her, "Timmy! Come give Armie your number so you two can schedule this, okay?" She turns back to Armie, "You have access to a studio, right?"

And he's too startled by Timmy walking over and unlocking his phone. Holding it out to Armie like he does this all the time, like this is supposed to happen. He's too startled to lie, so Armie chokes out, "Yeah, of course. Natural light and everything."

He types his number into Timmy's phone, knowing this is a terrible idea before he even presses 'save.'


	2. Part One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timmy is under eighteen in flashbacks, but there is nothing except neighborly run-ins and poor, one-sided attempts at flirting by Timmy during those flashbacks. Also, I'm momentarily done deleting fics I don't like and now I'm going back to writing things I actually enjoy writing.
> 
> I know, I know, I said weekend updates. But, I will be out of town this weekend. Apologies.

Armie gives Timmy credit; he waits almost two hours before texting. 

His phone vibrates on the counter and Armie looks over from stirring his soup--store brand chicken noodle that he knows will leave an oily film on the roof of his mouth--even though he has no doubt it will say "unknown number." What he isn't expecting is the image notification, which makes his eyes roll and his stomach flip. Another vibration and--

unknown number: _sure you can work with this ugly mug_

He lets out a breath. Was he holding his breath? Was he expecting something other than a selfie? Was he wanting something other than a selfie? Armie shakes his head and turns the burner off; his soup is starting to bubble. He leans against the counter and unlocks his phone. Lets his thumb hover for a moment before clicking on the message. 

It's poorly lit and taken at a bad angle. Timmy should look awful, or at least slightly worse than normal, but instead. Instead, Timmy's eyes are blanketed in shadows that make the sockets look more prominent, the whites brighter. The corner of his lower lip is tucked between his teeth and his jaw is angled--just so, like he knows what he's doing. Of course he knows what he's doing--to catch Armie's eye. To make his pupils trace the straight, hard line over and over until he can feel the phantom ridge on his tongue. 

Jesus. Armie has to look away. Close his eyes and crane his neck so that when he opens them again, he's staring at the ceiling. He counts down from ten; between numbers, he thinks about rolling hills and calm lakes. Anything but that jawline, those eyelashes. That look that doesn't belong in high school. Doesn't belong in the back of Armie's mind tonight. 

Three (a chickadee perched on a tree branch), two (smooth pebbles in the shallows of a pond), one (a deer looking up at the click of a camera.)

Armie: _It might be hard, but I'll see what I can do._

Almost immediately, a response. 

timmy: _not the only thing that's hard tonight._

Armie presses the home button and stares back at the ceiling as his phone vibrates. He knows it's an image. He knows and he's not going to open that. He can't open that because Timmy's--

Because Timmy is--

"No," Armie whispers. "He is barely old enough to be sending you pictures like this. And he's too young to know better. You are better than this."

He tosses his phone on the counter and turns to the cupboard. Grabs his soup bowl (the lime green one with a handle and matching lid) and then pours the soup in. 

It's not good soup, but it's not bad. He burns the roof of his tongue by drinking it too quickly. All the spoons were in the dishwasher. Armie focuses on the ache of his tongue, the engorged feeling of his taste buds. Repeats the chores he needs to do as he stares out the lone window in his main room. It's dark outside, but he can see the parking lot. He relaxes for a moment, looks up, and makes eye contact with himself in the reflection. _You are better than this._  
____

It started at the pool, probably. Not that Armie hadn't noticed Timmy prior to this past summer, because Timmy was pretty hard to miss. He seemed to be everywhere, all at once, when Armie didn't want to run into anyone. After his morning jog, when he came back from one too many drinks with Nick. The entirety of September. 

But this was before September, when he really should not have been letting his eyes stray. He shouldn't have been letting them linger on Timmy to begin with, but it happened, even if there were no real thoughts attached to the images. No thoughts, no ideas, because he knew Timmy was a senior--was going to be a senior? Armie isn't really sure how high school works anymore--and that the majority of seniors are seventeen. 

They might say "almost eighteen" or "eighteen in a few months," but what they mean to say is "I am seventeen."

So, it started at the pool and Timmy was seventeen. Seventeen and lounging on an inflatable swan while his friends yelled and splashed around him. Armie wanted to do laps, but he saw that was a losing battle, so he was turning back to the apartment when Timmy had notched his jaw down, looked over his sunglasses. Said, "We can go, if you'd like."

And Armie had said something stupid like, "No, go on. You kids have fun," which caused Timmy to laugh, and Armie to repeat the words in his head all night. "You kids, you kids, you kids." 

But, it might have been in the gym. The full gym in the basement that is rarely used by anyone other than Armie. It's wall-to-wall mirrors and relatively untouched equipment. He rarely needs headphones down there, but he uses them anyway. Just in case, just to be polite. Just to hide himself away in some world, even if he can't in this one. 

He'd been nearing the end of his cool-down jog when Timmy came in wearing skinny jeans and a maroon v-neck. Large headphones draped around his neck and head down in his cell phone. He had looked up at Armie. Nodded in acknowledgement, then stood in front of one of the mirrors. Held his phone up and--Armie assumed--snapped a picture in the mirror. Turned to the side a bit and stuck his tongue out, the bridge of his nose wrinkling a bit. Another pose. Smirked and then said something that Armie couldn't hear over his music. Motioned for Armie to take his headphones off, which he did, of course, like a trained dog. 

"You got Snapchat?"

"Do I have Snapchat?" Armie repeated, and Timmy nodded. Looked down at his phone and leaned against a stair climber. "No." The treadmill started to slow down a bit. The incline leveled out. 

Timmy shrugged his shoulder and said, "Figures. See you around."

Maybe it was then and maybe Armie spent part of the day wondering if Timmy had just come down to take the selfie. That Armie had just happened to be there and Timmy had wanted to be neighborly. Wanted to say something. But, maybe he _knew_. Knew Armie's schedule, his routine. Knew he'd be on the treadmill and used the selfie as an excuse to come down. Armie liked that idea. 

Or maybe it never really started. Maybe it just _was_. This stupid game, this dance. Or maybe it was nothing, really. 

____

He's not better than that. Armie loads the dishwasher and his phone buzzes again. 

timmy: _like, really hard. think you could help_

The ceiling offers no help this time; no billowing clouds or blue skies. Armie unlocks his phone and--

"Jesus Christ," Armie snorts. Gasps in air and then smiles until he can feel the skin crinkling around his eyes. 

The picture is grainy, but it's a math book. Calculus. Opened to the approximate middle, with a pencil in the curves of the binding. 

Armie: _Sorry, kid. I just had my ten year reunion; I don't remember any of that stuff._

He sets his phone down and closes the dishwasher. Turns it on and looks down when his phone lights up. 

timmy: _i like that you use semicolons when you text. and i'm not a kid._

Armie rolls his eyes; he has to clean the shower.

_____

On Friday, Nick hesitates. Armie wouldn't notice it normally; Nick has been a peripheral movement for the better part of thirty years. But today, Armie notices because he is stalling. Waiting for Liz to be alone, and subconsciously, he's aware that once Nick stops pretending to check his texts by the door, this will be the first time he has been alone in a room with Liz since September. 

Armie leans over the front desk, the wood edge digging into his ribs as he tries to crane his neck around the computer. "What time tomorrow?" he asks as he hears the electric chime ding as the door opens. A woosh of brisk hair hits his back, and he doesn't turn around to make sure Nick is gone. 

Liz, who is hovering over the computer, making clicks with the mouse that seem random to Armie but are definitely not. Nothing Liz does is random. Nothing Liz does is by haphazard. Nothing is by chance. "Probably ten. Why are you here?" She raises an eyebrow and looks up at him briefly. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Nick tells me you've become quite *involved* at your apartment." 

Armie's breath catches for a moment, like they know. Like everyone knows. *Not possible,* he reminds himself. "Oh, right. New Years," he rolls his eyes and shrugs. "No, I had something to ask and I didn't want," he waves back at the door Nick just exited. Stands up and scratches the side of his neck. Wonders for the briefest of moments if the hitch in his breath is a sign. 

Probably more like a warning.

A few more clicks and the blue glow that's been lighting up her face disappears. "Well, your shadow is gone," she comments and straightens up. Turns to open the coat closet and grabs her peacoat; Armie's own is beginning to make his elbows itch. 

"I have a friend who needs some pictures taken," he starts, immediately wishing he'd phrased it a different way. But what way should he have phrase it? _Someone I know needs some pictures taken. This kid from my apartment needs some pictures taken. This legal teenager whose tongue has been in my mouth and cock has been hard against my stomach--pressed against me while my own cock was straining against a washing machine, while I tried to stave off any further contact, to initiate the next step--needs some pictures taken._

"A friend?" She smirks and slides her coat on. Hits the lights and digs in her pocket for her keys. She nods at the door and Armie backs up, then turns. Holds it open for her. "Must be pretty close. Will you be needing to borrow some lingerie or will they bring their own?" 

"They're just headshots," he says as she slides past him, her shoulders hunching up as the air hits her face. 

She looks back and says, "You don't do headshots." Grins. He missed this banter. "We don't have any appointments Monday morning." 

He lets the door closed and pauses. Waits to hear the lock latch, even though she's not waiting for confirmation. It's a take it or leave it moment. "Okay, but it'll have to be early. Seven or so. " 

A few more steps and she waves at him, head already down in her phone. "You have a key. Have a good night, Armie." 

"Thanks," he says and pulls out his own phone. Unlocks it and goes to his messages. 

Armie: _Monday @ 7AM._

He's not even halfway to his car when he gets a reply. 

timmy: _wtf so early_  
timmy: _how am i supposed to look good at 7am_

Armie unlocks his car and stares at the messages. Gets inside and starts the engine. Looks outside; the streets are fairly empty, but he still looks around like someone is watching. Sighs and types before he can stop himself. Regrets it before he presses send, but still can't help himself. 

Armie: _You always looks good._

Timmy responds immediately. 

timmy: _hoped youd say that_  
timmy: _you always look hot like stupid hot_  
timmy: _can i get a ride monday_

Armie responds before putting the car in drive. 

Armie: _Of course._

He swallows down a grin as he thinks about Timmy typing _stupid hot_. Rolls to a stop at the end of the block and turns right. Tries to remember he needs to get gas, that he should probably grab a TV dinner while he's there, that he's running low on toilet paper as well. Actually, just tries not to think about Timmy. Turns the radio up so he can't hear himself think, _You're twenty-eight, you fucking moron. Get a grip._  
_____

By the time Armie gets home, Nick has already texted. He wants to lecture him about texting and driving, knows Nick well enough to be positive he sent the message while blindly merging into rush hour traffic. But, even via text, Nick is a master of deflection. In this case, he's a master of preemptive deflection. 

nick: _WHAT_  
nick: _ARE_  
nick: _YOU_  
nick: _DOING_  
nick: _?????_  
nick: _!!!!!_  
nick: _you better not be diong what i fucking think you are doing_  
nick: _*doing_  
nick: _fuck armie_

He also might need to discuss the fact that, under distress, Nick texts like a middle schooler.

Armie's about to toss his phone on the counter when he gets another notification. 

timmy: _any plans tonight?_

He snorts. Thinks, _yeah, I'm going to eat this TV dinner, be hungry again in an hour, and then go through the Taco Bell drive-thru. Then, I'll probably pass out watching_ Hoarders.

Armie: _Probably going to a bar with friends._

timmy: _no laundry_

Armie: _Not tonight._

timmy: _yeah you had a big load last week ;)_  
timmy: _also what self-respecting bachelor uses liquid fabric softener_

Armie grins. 

Armie: _Who says I'm self-respecting?_

He puts his phone down, but keeps it within reach. Opens the TV dinner and uses his keys to poke holes in the top before shoving it in the microwave. 

timmy: _i think you are. or you try to be._  
timmy: _you try to be good i can tell_

Armie presses start. 

Armie: _You can tell?_

He leans back against and brings his thumb to his mouth. Presses the pad against his left canine. Harder, harder, harder until he gets a reply. 

timmy: _you could have done anything you wanted but you just kissed me_  
timmy: _it was a good kiss but you could have had anything_  
timmy: _you know that right_

The acknowledgement of the kiss is the first time it feels real. Even that night, with the remnants of Timmy's wine thick on his own tongue, it hadn't seemed real. 

Armie: _The kiss was fine._

timmy: _Fine?_

The microwave dings and Armie bites down on his thumb. 

Armie: _Yes, it was fine._

The TV dinner is hot and he drops it on the counter. Peels back the plastic wrap and leaves it next to the tray. The condensation rolls off and forms a puddle. He needs to clean the kitchen tomorrow, anyways. 

timmy: _self respecting and humble_  
timmy: _and hot_  
timmy: _you know i keep complimenting you and you offer me nothing_  
timmy: _am i reading this all wrong_

Armie grabs a fork and leans over the counter as he eats. The mashed potatoes burn the roof of his mouth, but he barely feels it as he stares at the text. Afraid to respond and terrified to leave it hanging. Wanting this conversation to keep skirting the edge of possibilities, but also knowing he should say, "Yes. Yes, you are reading this all wrong."

God, but that's such a lie. 

timmy: _because you can just say so_  
timmy: _i'm not a child. i can deal with rejection_

Like a moth to the flame, except Armie is too close already. He basically started out in the fire, anyways. 

Armie: _I said you always look good._  
Armie: _What more do you want?_

He can't even get a mouthful of corn before Timmy responds. 

timmy: _i want everything_

Armie drops his fork and pushes away from the counter. Fuck.  
_____

Later, Armie is waiting in the drive-thru for his Taco Bell when Nick texts. 

nick: _armie i am not above asking liz what you were doing this afternoon_  
nick: _and you know she will tell me_  
nick: _and i swore i wouldn't pick sides but iw ill be team liz if i need to_  
nick: _*will_

Armie sighs and looks inside the little window. Watches the workers slowly walk around. It's late and the dining area is closed. Someone's mopping. 

Armie: _I just need to use the studio on Monday._  
Armie: _Stop worrying._

nick: _stop avoiding life then_  
nick: _drinks tomorrow? pick me up at eight?_

The window slides open and he grabs his bag and tosses his phone into the cup holder. Coasts to a parking spot under a light post and eats his nachos first. Then two tacos. This is where he's at now. Timmy been eighteen for a week and now Armie's basically lying to his best friend. Not even lying; a lie would be better. He's just avoiding the entire subject to begin with. Asking favors of Liz. Checking his phone every minute like a he'll miss out, like he'll miss everything if he doesn't see a text right away. Simultaneously wishing Timmy would stop with the texts. 

Armie: _Sounds good._

He wedges the cinnamon twists between his thighs and puts the car in reverse, but keeps his foot on the brake pedal. Grabs his phone and texts Timmy. 

Armie: _I think you're witty._  
Armie: _And I like your smile. Your actual smile, not the one you use for everyone else._  
Armie: _And the kiss was more than fine._  
Armie: _It was way more than fine._

The roof of Armie's mouth tingles at the memory. He runs the tip of his tongue along the same path Timmy had drawn. He eases off the break and drops his phone to the passenger seat. Pops a twist in his mouth and starts backing out of his spot. 

By the time he pulls into his parking spot at the apartment and puts the car in park, there's another text from Timmy. 

timmy: _flattery will get you everywhere and everything_

Armie had one beer before he left. One beer and a leftover, stale Christmas cookie from one of his neighbors. He's of sound mind and body and he has no excuse for turning off the ignition and grabbing his phone. For cracking his neck and not giving it a single thought as he responds. For smiling as he does. 

Armie: _Everywhere and everything?_  
Armie: _How about you come over. We can watch a movie._

He doesn't wait for a response; Armie has to clean up the apartment before Timmy gets there.


	3. Part One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave up on schedules.

Armie doesn't actually live like a bachelor. He still takes his shoes off when he walks into the apartment. Lines them up next to the door. His clothes make it into--or around--the hamper and he never lets it get out of control. He has a sock drawer, the carpets are vacuumed weekly, and he has a designated junk pile near the entryway instead of small bits of clutter all over the apartment. 

Yet, as he waits for the clack of footsteps to crescendo down the hallway, he finds more things to hide. A rolled ball of socks that escaped laundry day get shoved under the couch, a dirty pan gets placed on top of clean dishes in the dishwasher, and a picture of Liz that he forgot he even had on the bookcase gets pushed between some books Nick lent him. Books he has _totally read_ and didn't just read the online summary. (Armie loves Nick. He really does. But he will never join a book club with him.) He's about to grab a paper towel and haphazardly wipe down the bookcase, maybe even the television, when there's a loud knock on the door that straightens his spine, jerks his neck. 

No crescendo of footsteps, no light rap. Just one hard knock as a warning, and then the doorknob jiggles. He'd left it unlocked with the thought of calling out, "It's unlocked," while he casually sets down a magazine or a book, maybe pretends to put away dishes. That's how he had imagined this. So, he'd left it unlocked, but old habits die hard and the chain is latched. The door starts to swing open, then snaps to a stop and he hears Timmy hiss, "Jesus Christ," and then laugh. Armie rolls his eyes and maneuvers around the couch, laughing when he sees part of Timmy' face smooshed between the frame and the door. Asks, "What, are you afraid someone might break in and steal your impressive collection of plain crew-neck t-shirts?"

Armie rolls his eyes and flicks Timmy's chin with his middle finger. "Move," he says, giving Timmy a second to pull his face back before shutting the door and sliding the chain free. He swings the door open and leans against it, hoping to block Timmy's entrance for a moment. To keep him outside just a bit longer, maybe even give Timmy a chance to explain that he has some reason he can't come in. But, Timmy grins and ducks under Armie's arm. Slides into the apartment like it's his own, like he belongs there, like he's done this before. "Please, come in," Armie says, voice dry. He leans out into the hall a bit and looks left, then right. Left again, just a glance, before he ducks in and closes the door. He leaves the chain hanging this time and turns around. 

Timmy's too close and Armie avoids his eyes. Looks down and finds socked feet (the real reason Timmy was able to sneak down the hall) and yet another pair of sweatpants. This pair is black. "Hey," Timmy grins and looks up. Snakes his neck until Armie can't avoid eye contact. Whispers, "There you are," before leaning up (does he have to stand on his tip-toes? Does he just lean up, crane his neck? Straighten his posture? Armie wants to know; he wants a mirror on every wall so he can see this from all angles) and kissing the corner of Armie's mouth.

"Do you want something to drink?" Armie responds. Steps back and walks to the kitchen. "I have," he opens the fridge and scratches the nape of his neck. _Beer. You have beer and more beer and a full liquor cart in the living room. Beer, liquor, and an underage boy._

There's the slide of socked feet behind him and a hand on Armie's waist. A chin on his shoulder. "Beer is fine," he murmurs. "Where's your bottle opener? I want the Maple Jesus. You know, for an old man you have okay taste in beer."

"For an old man?" Armie repeats. He eyes the beer, then looks back at Timmy, who has started opening drawers in search of a bottle opener. "Left of the sink. And old men are supposed to have okay taste in beer. What's an eighteen year old doing knowing more than PBR's by sight?"

Timmy pulls open the drawer and grabs the bottle opener. Closes the drawer with his hip and turns around. "Does my mom look like she serves PBR? If she's going to have beer for guests, there has to be a story." Armie realizes he hasn't done anything except stare at Timmy, who's still rambling as he leans underneath Armie to grab two bottles. "And Evil Twin is a gypsy brewery run by a Danish twin who is a former schoolteacher. Drinking is not just a social norm in the Chalamet household," Timmy winks before opening the bottles and letting the caps clink to the countertop. "It's a trivia lesson." 

Armie lets the fridge door fall close and reaches for a bottle. "Maybe you should start your own version of _Drunk History_ ," he comments. 

Timmy shrugs and picks up the remaining bottle. Reaches out to clink the neck against Armie's bottle and then takes a swig. "We don't get drunk; we just get louder and more fun." He leans back against the counter. 

"You're not very loud," Armie comments and brings the bottle to his lips. "And I've seen you drunk."

Timmy pulls a face, one eye slightly squinting and his tongue pressing against the edge of his upper lip. "Have you?" Then he winks and pushes off the counter. Walks past Armie towards the living room where HGTV is playing on the television. _Fixer Upper._ "Oh right, I guess you have. I wasn't that drunk, though. I thought we were watching a movie." 

"You talk like you text," Armie comments under his breath, and it's true. It's overwhelming. Enthralling. Timmy flirts with topics and jumps to questions, not expecting comments or answers, but knowing he'll he get them one way or another. Or maybe not needing them to begin with.

Armie shakes his head and follows Timmy to the living room. Watches as Timmy grabs the remote and flops on the couch. Murmurs, "You love it," as he pulls up the channel guide. 

_____

Armie has _talked_ to Timmy before. It's not a huge apartment building and, again, Timmy, seems to be everywhere. Nothing about Timmy leaves Armie to believe he's one of those teenagers who hides away in a darkened bedroom, only coming out when he's forced to for necessities. He's talked to Timmy while getting his mail, while using the printer in the business center. When holding the door open for Timmy. They have made easy small talk and Armie has asked Timmy "What's up?" countless times. 

More importantly, Armie has listened to Timmy before. Not so much what his response to, "What's up?"--

( **Timmy's Favorite Responses to "What's Up?" in No Particular Order:**

"Ehh, you know, man."
"Not much, not much."
"S'all good."
A shrug and smile.)


\--but the way he actually talks. To friends, with his family. Sometimes, to himself when he thinks no one is around. Timmy talks like he has read more, seen more, and done more than most people who have decades on him. It's overwhelming and comforting all at once. 

Armie wants to take pictures of the way Timmy speaks. Or maybe just the way his brain works. Imagines it would be a landscape that has no need for the perfect lighting, because it's interesting any time of the day. Even well into the night when most of the details are hidden.  
_____

They can't agree on a movie. "Just pick something," Armie says on the second run through the channel guide. "I will literally watch _The Lego Movie_ , at this point. Just--" he makes a swipe for the remote, but Timmy pulls it back. Holds it out to keep it just out of reach but aimed at the television.

"That's a good movie, first off, and if you haven't seen it I might have to never speak to you again." He doesn't comment on Armie's lack of reponse. "And I'm not just going to 'pick something.' You invited me over to watch a movie. I am your guest and I want to watch a movie. Mind your manners."

Armie leans forward and sets his beer down on the coffee table. Pushes the sleeves of his hoodie up his forearms. Repeats, "Mind my manners?"

Timmy doesn't look away from the television, but Armie sees his smirk. The slight nod of his chin and a quiet, "Do you always need to repeat what I say?" Except, it's not a question. Not really. It's sounds more like a riddle, or banter between two people stuck on the brink of "Will they/Won't they?" Armie loves that. As much as he loves the comfort of a steady relationship--knowing someone's coffee order, the length of their morning shower, the best time to text the during the day if he wants a quick response--the build up is his favorite. Hoping he's said the right thing and basking in the payoff of a laugh or a smirk. Or the glow of a genuine smile.

Those moments that make you think, _I want to be around this person until they are sick of me._ Armie loves that. 

And, fuck, when did _this_ become that? Did it even become that or is he the one reading this the wrong way? 

"You know what I think?" Armie tests. He turns a bit. Bends his leg so he can comfortably face Timmy. So he can reach out and place his hand on Timmy's knee, tap his thumb once, twice on the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Waits until Timmy responds by scrolling through a few channels, breathing out a puff of air that sounds like, "What?" or maybe "Yeah?" The airy equivalent of a shrug and a smile. "I think you don't want to watch a movie."

Timmy opens his mouth. Closes it and shakes his head. A curl bounces loose a bit and Armie tries not to wonder if Timmy is growing his hair. Ignores the idea of what that might feel like in his hands. "You're the one that invi--"

And Armie doesn't need the reminder that he invited an eighteen year old to his apartment on a whim. Doesn't need the reminder that he sat in his car and texted the words, _How about you come over. We can watch a movie._ A line he hasn't used since college. A line that rarely worked then and, when it did, usually made him regret everything by morning. 

Armie doesn't need the reminder that mere months ago, he was well past this stage in a relationship. That he knew more than shower schedules and coffee orders; he knew the ease of silence that could exist between two people. Months ago, when that silence had become louder and louder until neither could take it anymore, Armie had imagined it would be years before he'd want it again. And yet, here he is ( _like an idiot_ , he reminds himself) seeking that in a boy who was in a high school classroom hours ago. 

He doesn't need the reminder that this is an awful idea, so he pushes forward and grabs Timmy's wrist. Smiles when the remote drops to the ground and breaks open. Batteries roll under the couch and _fuck_ Timmy molds so easily underneath him. Sinks back into the couch and spreads his legs, lets Armie pin his hand against the couch and hover over his body, wedge himself between Timmy's thighs. He worries, for a moment, that he's putting too much pressure on Timmy's wrist, putting too much pressure, but then Timmy's free hand is cupping Armie's neck. Pulling him closer while parting his lips, the bare hint of a smile hidden only by a quick flash of teeth and the touch of his tongue against Armie's lower lip. 

A whispered, "The movie can wait," is all it takes for Armie to stop hovering, stop worrying about what happened in September or where Timmy was hours ago. Where they might be hours or days from now. He grins and cocks his chin up. Nips at Timmy's upper lip and lowers himself against Timmy's body. Soft at first, but fully when Timmy doesn't squirm or sigh. When Timmy hooks a heel on the back of Armie's thigh to hold him close. 

Armie can't remember the last time he made out with someone, but he hopes he remembers this for quite some time. This is something Timmy is experienced with; he toys with the hairs at the base of Armie's neck. Slides his hands to Armie's bicep and squeezes the muscle through his sweatshirt. He doesn't stay attached to Armie's lips for too long. Trails open-mouthed kisses to Armie's jaw, his neck. Bites at his earlobe and flicks away the dull pain with the tip of his tongue. 

Pulls back and stretches his neck; opens up and invites Armie to explore. Repeat, repeat.

But they always meet again. For chaste kisses when Armie finally lets go of Timmy's wrist and instead pushes Timmy's shirt past his belly button so he can run a long thumb over his belly, his lowest rib. They meet for deeper kisses that force hands to freeze and wait their turn. To change direction when they remember they don't have to wait. 

Armie forgets how good _just this_ can be until muscle memory takes over and he changes directions one too many times. Until his arm is bent, awkward, fingertips pushing under the waist of Timmy's sweatpants and brushing the head of his cock. Feeling the dampness through Timmy's boxers and groaning at the thought of how long he's been avoiding this, how long he's felt Timmy's cock pressing into him and _fuck, how long have we been doing this?_ Armie wonders, but he doesn't even care. 

Armie doesn't give anything a thought until he feels Timmy's ribs tighten and hears him swallow. Until he looks up to find Timmy's eyes and instead sees a boy staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. 

Armie pulls back slowly. Slides his hand up to the side of Timmy's waist and kisses along Timmy's cheek until he gets to his ear. Whispers, "I've never actually seen _The Lego Movie,_ " before pushing off of the couch and sitting back. He reaches out and pulls Timmy's shirt down to cover his stomach and smiles when Timmy looks at him. "So, if you want to get that started, I'll go make popcorn. Do you want another beer?"

Timmy grins and nods.  
_____

It's late when Armie's phone lights up. He doesn't know what the time is, but he does know it's physically painful to reach out and check the text. Assumes correctly that it's Timmy. 

timmy: _i feel dumb_  
timmy: _i'm sorry about tonight_

Armie: _Sorry for...?_

When a minute passes without a response, Armie adds:

Armie: _Timmy?_

timmy: _ugh_  
timmy: _you know_  
timmy: _acting like a dumb kid when you touched me_  
timmy: _i was jsut shocked or whatever_

Sleep doesn't seem so close anymore. Armie sits up and lets the sheet fall to his waist. 

Armie: _You didn't act like a dumb kid._  
Armie: _What would have been dumb is doing something you weren't comfortable with._  
Armie: _I had fun watching the movie with you._

It's not a lie. He normally hates when people talk during movies, but he loved the way Timmy would point out little things. Like when he tapped Armie's kneecap and sat up a bit, murmured, "See how Benny's helmet is cracked?" and Armie laughed because he remembers having the same crack on his own toy growing up. 

timmy: _i just feel like_  
timmy: _i feel stupid around you sometimes because_  
timmy: _i don't want to mess up_  
timmy: _but i don't know if there's anythign to mess up_  
timmy: _??? you know?_  
timmy: _i'm just not really sure what we're doing._

Armie: _I like spending time with you. And I like your weird beer facts._  
Armie: _But, it's late. How about you go to sleep and we can talk about this over breakfast?_

timmy: _breakfast?_  
timmy: _it's saturday how early are we talking_

Armie rolls his eyes.

Armie: _Okay, how about brunch?_

timmy: _aww my grandpa loves brunch_  
timmy: _okay. i'll text you when i wake up?_

Armie slides down against the pillows and rolls to his side. 

Armie: _I'll be waiting. Night, Timmy._

He doesn't set his phone down until he gets one last notification. 

timmy: _sleep well_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god I'll get to the plot eventually.


	4. Part One.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some Nick.

Armie is starving. 

He wipes the steam from the mirror with his towel, then wraps it around his waist. Tucks the edge below his bellybutton and places his palm against his stomach. Feels the slight rumble of hunger but, more than that, feels the skin. Feels hair and flesh that was definitely tighter--smoother--ten years ago. Skin that started to change without him noticing. Or caring, really, because for five years someone always wanted to touch his skin as much as he wanted to touch theirs. 

But now, he's aware. He grabs his phone from the corner of the counter. No text, but an e-mail from Liz. Subject line: Schedule 1/13-1/17. Liz is ridiculous with schedules, and he tells her regularly. Spreadsheets for every week, even though it's just the three of them. Any scheduling changes could be sent via their group chat. Which has been silent since September, like all three of them are afraid to mar the fading landscape of inside jokes and relentless teasing (usually at Nick's expense.) 

He opens the schedule on the way to the bedroom and rolls his eyes when he sees the highlight under Monday's column. At 7AM, a block of yellow, the black text broadcasting, "Armie: Private Session," like it is some sort of secret. He's sure Liz didn't mean it that way, but he knows he'll get a text from Nick about this. 

Armie tries not to check his phone while he gets dressed or towel dries his hair. While he debates shaving or letting the scruff stay for the weekend (he did like the way it left harsh red marks on Timmy's neck, around his lips, his jaw. It stays.) He even puts his phone in his pocket while he picks up from the night before; he only checks it once. 

By noon, there's still no message from Timmy. 

There is a message from Nick. Of course.

nick: _PRIVATE SESSION_  
nick: _INTRESTING._  
nick: _interesting? intresting? interesting, right?_

Armie doesn't bother responding. 

______

By a quarter to one, Armie makes the decision that he's not a twelve year old and he's not going to let the silence of his phone dictate his day. He walks to the coffee shop on the corner and to get a donut and coffee. Takes the scenic route on the way there so he can pass by the Chalamet's apartment, the mail room, the lounge. He checks his phone once more; when he's met with just the time and the weather, he makes the decision to get two donuts. After all, he was saving room for brunch and that doesn't seem to be happening.  
______

It's not like Armie's never been stood up before. It's that it hasn't happened recently. Long term relationships don't leave room for the awkward, "Will they, won't they," moments at bars or coffee shops. It's been years and most of the awkward upward glances at movements in doorways are a hungover blur from his college days.

But he remembers high school. Remembers waiting at an ice cream shop for a girl from homeroom who never showed. Sitting on a park bench with a soda to share that he ended up drinking alone as he walked home. Pushing aside curtains to peer outside for headlights in his driveway. Doing the math in his head, "The movie starts in five minutes. If he pulls up now, we have ten minutes to make it to the theater. We'll just miss the previews if we don't get popcorn. I can get popcorn once we find seats." Changing his math to, "Nothing happens in the first half anyways." Eventually settling onto the couch, overdressed and over-cologned for a night of Lifetime movies with his mom. 

The bells at the coffee house jingle against the door and Armie looks up as he pushes the last bite of his first donut past his lips. Watches as a girl makes eye contact with someone across the room, relief flooding both of their faces. 

He checks his phone once more. Debates how late brunch really runs. Throws a bone towards Timmy by checking his messages, confirming that nothing has been sent since last night. That he somehow didn't miss it, that _he_ somehow is the one standing Timmy up. 

(And that thought--the mere idea--makes his stomach sink. Imagining Timmy in his bedroom, cross-legged on his bed. Maybe already wearing shoes, biting on the skin around his thumb. His phone in front of him, waiting for a response from Armie. Stomach possibly growling, but he told his mom he had plans. Told his mom he didn't want pancakes or eggs or whatever the Chalamets had for breakfast. He had plans.)

Armie checks and everything is the same. _sleep well_ followed by silence. 

He picks up donut number two. Lets his thumb hover over his phone for a moment before setting it back down and putting all his focus towards not getting powdered sugar on his shirt. 

______

But then, _fuck_ , Armie remembers Jessica Anderson. Homeroom, junior year. They'd exchanged numbers the last day of school, promising they'd get together over the summer for lunch or ice cream or _anything_. But she never called, so Armie never called and then he looked for her the first day of his senior year, even _asked around_ and how embarrassing was _that_ only to find out she transferred schools. 

Armie waits until he's walking back to the apartment before pulling out his phone. 

Armie: _Are you in a coma?_  
______

Later, Nick pushes his mainly full beer across the table at Armie. Says, "You finish that. I can drive us back to your place." The invitation to sleep on Armie's couch is assumed by both men as Nick finagles his wallet out of his back pocket, flags down the bartender. Casually slips in, "So, that private session on Monday," which sounds like the start of a story, but Armie knows is an open-ended question. Nick was never subtle about his need to know everything. To fit himself into every corner of Armie's life. 

Armie rolls his eyes and brings the glass to his lips. Drains it to half-empty before licking his lips and staring across the bar, towards a woman who has been trying to make eye contact with him for the last half hour. He makes sure to stare directly to her left. "It's nothing. Just some guy from my apartment needs head shots done."

Nick hands the bartender his card and nudges Armie's knee with his own. "Thought you didn't _do_ headshots."

Armie shrugs. "I can make exceptions. I used to think I didn't _do_ boudoir photography, and yet," he let's the sentence trail off. Briefly wonders what his professors would think. If they would have graded his portfolios differently, held back invitations to dinner parties had they known he would be doing high school portraits. Arguing over the best lighting for women in lingerie. 

Nick hastily signs the receipt. Armie laughs when he messes up the math for the tip. Stops abruptly when Nick asks, "Would this be the same _thing_ from New Years?"

It takes a few sips and eye rolls, but Armie finishes the beer. Grabs his coat from the hook under the counter and slides his arms inside. Says, "He's not a _thing,_ " and immediately regrets it, especially when Nick slaps him on the back and makes a comment about finally moving on. 

Not because he hasn't moved on. Armie has moved on; he probably moved on long before everything came to an end. Well before September; probably more like August or July. Maybe earlier. Armie has definitely moved on, but it has nothing to do with New Years, nothing to do with Timmy. He never needed Timmy to help with that. 

He checks his phone again. Still silent. He pockets it and hands his keys to Nick. "He has nothing to do with me moving on."  
______

Except, maybe he does. Not a lot, but a little, because they're pulling into the apartment parking lot when Armie's phone vibrates in his pocket and he realizes that even just weeks ago, he'd be hoping for a text from Liz. Even a message for him _and_ Nick. Anything, really. But now, he just wants to see one name. And he does. 

Timmy: _IM SO SORRY_  
Timmy: _fuck armie my mom took my phone away_  
Timmy: _i swear i wasnt avoiding you ok_

Armie grins out the window. Glances at Nick to make sure his eyes are on the road and not on Armie's phone. 

Armie: _What, did you get grounded by Mommy?_

Timmy: _YEAH KINDA_  
Timmy: _dont make fun of me_  
Timmy: _ill tell everyone you teared up at the end of the lego movie_

Armie snorts. 

Armie: _That's a lie._

Timmy: _your word against mine_  
Timmy: _and ive taken four years of theater_  
Timmy: _im an excellent liar_  
Timmy: _anyways can i come over i can make it up to you_

Armie: _I just got back from the bar. My friend is staying the night._

"Who are you texting?" Nick asks as he puts the car in park. 

Simultaneously, they both say, "No one," but Nick's voice has a cruel undertone of sarcasm. "Shut up," Armie adds. 

Timmy: _...oh._  
Timmy: _ok..._

Armie gets out of the car and stares at the text. Swears under his breath and starts walking to the apartment, leaving Nick to lock the car and fumble for the apartment key. 

Armie: _No! Like an actual friend. My best friend, Nick. He's sleeping on the couch._  
Armie: _Can I text you later? Or call?_

There's a long pause. Long enough for Nick to find the apartment key and catch up to Armie. To walk down the hall to Armie's apartment and unlock the door. Long enough to kick off shoes and pour glasses of water, for Nick to settle into the couch and pull a throw blanket over his legs. For Armie to brush his teeth and undress. Throw his clothes toward the hamper and turn off his bedside light. To stare at his phone in the dark. 

And then, everything lights up.

Timmy: _no one calls anymore_  
Timmy: _its not 1992 old man_  
Timmy: _anyways_  
Timmy: _i like you_  
Timmy: _in case you didnt notice_

Armie grins. 

Armie: _I really like you, too. I'm pretty sure you noticed, though._

Silence. Silence, and for a painful moment, Armie wonders if Timmy has noticed. If he's been too much, too soon. If today was the truth and tonight's texts were an apology of sorts. A way to let Armie down, a way to nicely say, "You should really chill," or however a high schooler would word the sentiment. His phone vibrates and Armie laughs. Answers, "So it's only an old person thing if I call?"

Timmy's voice is quiet. Not quite a whisper, but deeper. Slightly husky. "Yeah. When I do it, it's retro. Anyways, I'm sorta grounded and supposed to be asleep right now, but I wanted to talk to you."

"Why are you grounded? Because of last night?"

He hears the sound of Timmy settling into his own bed. "No, no. School stuff." A quick pause and then, "I'm really sorry, you know. I wanted to see you today." A quickly added, "A lot."

Armie pulls his covers up to his chest. Settles back against the headboard closes his eyes; tries to picture Timmy in bed next to him. His voice filling the room as Armie forces his eyelids to stay open.  
_____

He falls asleep in the middle of his "Two Truths and a Lie" turn. 

Armie learns that Timmy has never been on a roller coaster, will be a theater major at NYU in the fall, and is slightly scared of cats. Not terrified, but wary. "Scared might not be the right word," he explained. Laughed. His favorite holiday is Thanksgiving and he has a mole on the bottom of his left foot that his mom calls "Littlest Timmy." He avoids stepping on cracks and the only reason he got drunk on New Years was because he was nervous to talk to Armie. "But I wanted to," he'd added. "Like, a lot."

Armie only remembers some of what he revealed to Timmy. Knows he didn't tell him any big secrets. Didn't tell him _the_ big secret, even though it's not much of a secret. Most days, Armie thinks it is hanging out in plain sight. In the way he carries himself. How he talks to Nick and Liz. The only thing hidden is pictures between books. Easy to find, easy to reveal, hard to let go of. 

He wakes to a text from Timmy and the shock of Nick hitting him in the head with a pillow. "I have yoga in twenty. Give me a ride," Nick demands. He thrusts a cup of coffee--instant; Armie's coffee pot broke a year ago and he thought it was dumb to buy one when they could just put a fancy one on the wedding registry--at Armie and then walks away. Adds, "Please," as he slams the bedroom door shut, giving Armie privacy again. 

A sip of almost-coffee is all it takes for Armie to wake up enough to check the text. 

Timmy: _one last turn_  
Timmy: _my favorite color is red_  
Timmy: _my middle name is hal_  
Timmy: _i wish i was next to you right now_

Armie lets his head fall back against the headboard. Lets the slight pain spread through his skull, center at the base of his neck. Disappear. 

_Jesus._

Armie doesn't respond.  
______

"So," Nick yawns, "Have you fucked him yet?"

Armie's quick to blush but quicker to let his mind wander. He puts on his blinker and turns out of the parking lot. Swallows as he thinks about Timmy's texts. The press of his lips, the soft flesh of his belly. His cock. "No," Armie answers. Opens his mouth to add to that, but he doesn't want Nick to have more ammunition. 

"Interesting," Nick says. He drums his fingers along his kneecaps. Taps out a loitering rhythm that eventually pauses. Asks, "Why not?"

Armie laughs and comes to a stop at a street light. Stares out his window, watching a woman yawn as her dog pisses on a tree. "We're taking it slow."

" _You're_ taking it slow?"

Armie turns into the gym's parking lot. Drives up to the entrance and puts the car in park. "Yeah, obviously."

Nick's hand hovers on the door handle. "Well, you have a history of rushing into things. You're a bit, ugh," Nick makes a ticking noise with his tongue. It sounds like a time bomb, a kitchen timer, a clock; Armie reaches across the car to slap Nick's shoulder. "Impulsive." 

"Impulsive?"

Nick nods. Pushes the door open and steps out. Leans down and says, "The timing of all of this is just--"

"Let me guess," Armie cuts him off. He knows what Nick is talking about. He should be in Jamaica right now, working on his tan. Lounging on the beach, admiring the weight on his left hand and the lifetime commitment to his right. Or maybe she'd be in the ocean. Instead, he's waiting for texts from a grounded high schooler. "It's interesting." 

Nick winks. Slams the door and taps the roof of the car. 

Armie is a bit embarrassed that his tires squeal as he leaves. It's just because they need air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A filler chapter due to my inability to pull the angst trigger days before Christmas.


	5. Part One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late, late, late. Christmas happened.

The knock comes seconds after the oven timer. Armie rolls his eyes at the door and yells, "Just a second," before grabbing the cardboard disc and sliding it under the pizza. It's a practiced routine. His Sunday nights consist of a lot of frozen pizza. Armie kicks the oven door shut and drops the pizza on the counter. 

Another knock, and, "Jesus Christ, what part of just a second don't people..." he trails off. Wipes his hands on his shirt and walks to the door, cracking his neck before unlocking it and throwing it open. He expects a neighbor with misdelivered mail, one of the kids from the second floor selling Girl Scout cookies (which he keeps cash on hand specifically for), or Ms. Becker who always seems to need light bulbs changed. 

Instead, he flings the door open to Timmy in yet another pair of joggers. This pair is forest green. "My mom said I can crash on your couch," he says and pushes past Armie and drops a backpack to the side of the door. Kicks his shoes--black slip-ons--to the side and turns around, bare feet stark white against the hardwood floors. 

"Your mom said--" Armie starts, but shuts his mouth and the door when Timmy raises an eyebrow. "So, I take it you're not grounded anymore?"

"Nope," Timmy says, popping the last syllable. "And I wasn't really grounded," he adds, taking a step closer to Armie. Looping his thumb in the hem of Armie's t-shirt and pulling him a bit closer. Not with strength, but with a smirk. "Just forcefully encouraged to finish an essay."

"An essay? On what?" Armie reaches a hand up; he wants to put his fingers through Timmy's hair but notices the dampness. Waivers for a moment before pressing his palm to the side of Timmy's neck. Traces his thumb along the Adam's apple and tries not to compare the size of his hand and Timmy's neck. 

Without hesitation, Timmy says, "What I did over winter break." Smirks and then pulls away from Armie. "Frozen pizza? Do you always eat like you live in your mom's basement?"

"Do you always complain about free food?" Armie asks before turning to the kitchen and grabbing a knife. He slices the pizza down the middle, then quarters. Licks the sides of the knife before tossing it in the sink. "Plate?" 

Timmy doesn't answer, just moves next to Armie and grabs a slice. Leans against the edge of the counter while he eats. Armie tries not to watch his throat as he swallows, as he licks his finger before pushing a stray string of cheese back into his mouth. There's not much else to watch, though. 

When only one piece of pizza is left, Armie pushes it to Timmy's half. Rubs his stomach and lies, "I'm done." Smiles when Timmy grabs the piece and cleans up the cardboard. Intuitively opens the cabinet under the sink to find the garbage. Armie knows the layout of his apartment is similar, knows Timmy's garbage is probably in the same place. He knows. But it still sparks something inside of him to see Timmy barefoot, eating frozen cheese pizza, and moving around the kitchen like it's his own. Like he doesn't need someone to play host for him. 

"I have to read a chapter of _The Jungle_ before tomorrow," Timmy says before swallowing the crust. Padding over to his backpack and retrieving the book. "Is that okay?"

Armie nods. 

Timmy zips the bag closed and holds the book against his chest. Steps closer and this time, doesn't touch Armie. Doesn't pull him closer, but Armie still leans down. Hovers. "It's okay that I'm here, right? I just figured it would be easier. Since you're giving me a ride tomorrow. For the headshots."

This time, Armie doesn't think twice about the damp hair. He cradles his hand against the back of Timmy's skull and sinks down. Kisses his forehead and, barely, just briefly, hears the wet stretch of Timmy's lips as he smiles. Licks his lips. "It's more than okay." He stands up and backs away from Timmy. Walks to the living room and flops onto the couch. "But, you're not crashing on my couch. I have a king size bed."

Timmy rolls his eyes and follows him to the living room. Sits in the armchair perpendicular to the couch, facing the dark window. Mocks, "'Hey, Mom, I'm going over to Armie's so I can be the littlest spoon in his bed.' No shit, Armie. Like I'd sleep on your couch." He opens his book to a dog-eared page and sinks back into the chair. Slouches so much that Armie's own back aches.

Later--

(a lot later because, "I can't go to bed with wet hair," Timmy explained. "It poofs if I sleep on it." So, they'd had some tea. Watched three episodes of _Friends_. Armie tried not to think about it too much when Timmy claimed to have never seen the pivot episode. Tried not to think about stopping in the kitchen during that scene, watching his mom laugh at it for the first time when it initially aired.)

\--Timmy smells like toothpaste and he's pulling the comforter up to his chin. He claimed the left side of the bed when Armie was in the bathroom. When Armie was avoiding how weird it felt to be changing into gym shorts to sleep. Leaving on his undershirt. Thinking about how he's touched Timmy's cock, but for some reason needs to get ready for bed behind a closed door. More than that, wondering if Timmy thought about this before coming over. If that's why he showed up in joggers and a t-shirt. Soft, comfortable, ready to slip under the covers. God, he always looks ready to slip under the covers or drink coffee in the morning. 

Armie turns off his light and, for once, is glad his bedroom window is within the range of a street lamp because he can see Timmy roll on his side and blink at him. "Did you set your alarm?" 

Armie nods. "Yeah. Do you drink coffee?" 

Timmy nods. Bites his lip and the street lamp makes his teeth shine for a brief moment. 

"Okay." Armie scoots closer and runs a hand under the covers. Finds Timmy's hip and traces his thumb along the elastic band of his joggers, dipping under the fabric for a moment before sliding around to his back. "You're not a very good spoon," he comments. 

Timmy sighs, a puff of mint hitting Armie's face before a burst of lips, a hint of tongue against his upper lip, and then Timmy is rolling over. Pressing back against Armie and sculpting his palm to the back of Armie's hand. Pressing Armie's fingers against his stomach and Armie wants to dip under his shirt. Wants to feel the skin and just hold onto that softness, but instead he lets Timmy wiggle into place. Press his ass back against Armie and rotate his head against the pillow until he's seemingly comfortable. "Better?"

"Much," Armie says and kisses the base of his neck. Grins when Timmy's fingers tighten on his own hand. "Much better." 

They're quiet for a few moments and Armie wants to warn Timmy that he takes a while to fall asleep most nights. That he rolls around a lot and usually gets very warm. Kicks his blankets off in the middle of the night and has to get up to pee around three or four. Just wants to warn him, but Timmy sighs, his entire body seeming to shrink as he spits out, "I'm not a virgin, just, like," he swallows. "Just so you know. The other night I just--"

"Stop," Armie says. Finds Timmy's bellybutton through the cotton and presses his ring finger in the tiniest fraction. "We have to get up early, okay? Just go to sleep." He tightens his arm around Timmy and presses his forehead against the skin he'd just kissed. 

_____

It's been months since Armie shared a bed with anyone. Before September, when routines became chores and habits became burdens. When Armie wakes up at a quarter to four, he carefully unwinds himself from Timmy's body and tucks the comforter snugly against his back. Pads to the bathroom and, afterwards, tries to slowly flush the toilet like it will be quieter somehow. When he climbs back into bed, he prepares himself to stare at the ceiling until his alarm goes off. Prepares to overthink the coming day and dread Nick asking questions and Liz raising an eyebrow at him when he doesn't have answers. 

He blinks and pushes the comforter to his waist. Holds his breath when Timmy stirs and rolls closer. Presses a hand under Armie's shirt and rests it against his stomach. Tucks his head against Armie's shoulder. 

Armie feels the rise and fall of Timmy's breaths against his side, the soft exhales warming the fabric of his undershirt. Matches his own breaths to these movements until his eyes close. 

When he opens them, Timmy's face is illuminated by natural light and his cock his half hard against Armie's thigh. Armie presses a kiss to his forehead and slowly scoots away, smiling when Timmy fruitlessly clutches at his t-shirt. Fingers confident and weak with sleep. 

He heats water in the microwave and, while the seconds tick down, makes a not on his grocery pad to pick up a new coffee maker.  
_____

Armie flicks on the front office lights. Rolls his eyes when Timmy whistles, low, head turning to take in the pictures that decorate the room. "I sure hope we have the same vision for my headshots," Timmy says, dropping his bag in front of the desk. From the waist up, he looks ready for a wedding. Armie had been amused watching Timmy fret over his tie in the mirror, admitting, "I didn't learn to tie my own until I was twenty-five." Under his breath, Timmy had muttered, "Bet you wear clip-on bow ties." Armie opened his mouth to retort that he didn't _wear_ bow ties, but then he remembered that he does, in fact, own a clip-on bow tie.

From the waist down, however, Timmy is in what Armie described as men's maternity wear. Jeans with an elastic waistband. Socks pulled up high and feet tucked into his slip-ons.

Armie turns to face Timmy. Shrugs, "I was thinking a sensible teddy. No fishnets; I doubt you shaved." 

"Forget the shaving," he gestures at one of the portraits. A woman in a bathtub filled with Christmas ornaments; they still have their holiday inspiration hanging. "Pretty sure I could never pull that off." 

"These," Armie waves a hand around the room, "Are models. Client pictures are in these," he pulls one of the binders from Liz's desk and opens it to a random page. A middle-aged woman in a black silk robe, kneeling on an ottoman. 

"Oh, you put the homely people in binders," Timmy comments before stepping forward to look. Pulling the binder in front of himself. 

"Homely is such a shit word," Armie says, too quickly, and he can see Timmy flinch. Search for an apology, maybe because of the words or because he can see the woman on the page now. "No one is homely; they just don't have someone who cares enough taking their picture." 

"You care?" Timmy flips a page. Nods. 

"Yeah. I wouldn't do this if I didn't care." He walks around the desk and checks the phone. No new messages; Liz probably came in last night to check. She always does. 

"Oh," Timmy comments. Quickly scans a few more pages before pulling his phone out and, Armie assumes, checking the time. "So," he runs a hand through his hair. "I have school in an hour."  
_____

Like everything, posing comes naturally to Timmy. He sits on the stool, knees angled to the left of Armie. Chin tilted slightly down, eyes on Armie's forehead, just above the lens to avoid pictures that seem like a glare, a menace. Lips fixed in a smile that isn't real, but is--at the very least--honest. His posture is straight, but not stiff. "Perfect," Armie murmurs as he releases the shutter. "You've done this before, yeah?" 

Timmy nods and adjusts. Twists on the stool, bends his neck from side to side. "For programs," he explains. "We have to redo them every year," he notes and Armie gets it. Gets that they can't have a picture of a freshman who is now a senior; gets that they might be unrecognizable. Gets that Timmy has likely changed a lot in the past four years and will be changing in years to come. That he's still morphing, waiting to learn from mistakes, unattainable goals, bad lovers. Good lovers. People disappointing him and, worse, the disappointment he'll dish out no matter how hard he tries not to or how unaware he is of it happening. How that will keep him up at night. Or not. God, Armie hopes that will keep Timmy up; he can't imagine the type of person Timmy would have to be molded into to not be kept awake at night by--

"Where'd you go?" Armie looks at Timmy and his eyes aren't on Armie's forehead anymore. Armie blinks. "There you are," Timmy says. Winks. 

"It's early," Armie lies. "Sorry." 

Later, they're back in the front office. Timmy is undoing the buttons on his shirt, revealing a crisp white undershirt. He has rolled up his jacket and shoved it into his backpack. Has a hoodie pinned between his knees, ready to slip on. 

Armie is trying to look busy at the computer. Really, he's opening and closing one of Liz's Excel schedules. Repeatedly. 

"When are you done with work?" Timmy asks. Tucks his tie and shirt into his bag and zips it up. 

Armie has just closed the schedule. He rolls his eyes and double clicks the icon again. Waits for it to load and checks when the last shoot is scheduled. "Probably a bit after five." 

As Timmy pulls his hoodie over his head, the door chimesand Armie looks up, makes eye contact with Liz. Timmy's head pops through the hoodie, and maybe he didn't hear the door, maybe he doesn't care, but he says, "Then you should pick me up after school. I have theater until four, but I don't mind waiting." His hair, which had been tamed while Armie took pictures is mussed up. A bit careless. 

Armie watches Liz's eyebrows raise, then fall. Her weight shift backwards, like she could back out the door. Retreat. Instead, she smiles and it looks like when Armie would blurt out too much information at a dinner party or when Liz decided they were fighting over something stupid. It looked like walking into Thanksgiving dinner at his mother's house. "Morning, Armie," she says and lets the door shut behind her. 

Timmy slings his bag over his shoulder. Turns to Liz, but keeps his eyes on Armie for a second too long. Pleads with him to come closer, to speak first, to do anything, but Armie can just close the schedule and look down at the screen. At the keyboard, at his left hand that is trembling the tiniest bit. 

"I'm sorry, Armie never told me who he was--"

Timmy adjusts the straps of his backpack, then sticks his hand out. "Hi, I'm Timothée Chalamet." He sounds like he's talking to a principal and Armie squeezes his eyes shut. 

"Timothée?" Liz says, trying out the pronunciation. Of course, getting it right on the first try. It had taken Armie four tries, but he'd had a bit to drink. Timmy had as well and, God, he wants to go back to his couch. Wants to live in _The Lego Movie_. Or at least be on vacation there right now. "Nice to meet you. Armie said you needed headshots. Did it go well?"

"Perfect," Armie says as he walks around the desk to stand between Liz and Timmy. "Though, it could have been better with more--"

"If you say 'studio lights,'" Liz's voice trails off and she walks by Armie. Shoves his shoulder playfully before setting her bag down. Unbuttoning her coat. "Well, don't let me--"

"We were just leaving," Armie says. "Or, Timmy was. I mean, I'm giving--"

"Armie's giving me a ride," Timmy offers. Takes a step to the door. "And, we really need to get going. I can't be late."

_Jesus, Timmy, why don't you just say, 'I don't want my mom to have another reason to ground me.'_

Liz nods and Armie reaches in his pocket for his keys. "Should I get coffee on the way back?"

Liz smiles, again, and Armie has forgotten what this smile means. She has so many. "That would be great." 

Outside, Timmy ducks his head into the wind. He doesn't have a coat and Armie wants to put an arm around him, wants to at least hold one of his hands. Bring it to his lips and blow warmth into their palms. Instead, he takes longer strides and asks, "What's the quickest way this time of day?"  
_____

The brake pedal is against the floor; Armie puts the car in park. A pack of teenagers walks in front of his car, heads buried in their phones. They look young. Younger. 

He doesn't have to look over to know Timmy's fingers are on the door handle. He could see Timmy's movements when the school was in sight. Knew he was trying to get one foot out the door without actually having to test his ability to tuck and roll. And still, manners. "Thanks for the ride. And the headshots," Timmy pulls the handle. "I'm sure my mom will--"

It sounds like a wall, a shield, an acquiescence. "I can probably get here a bit before five," Armie says. Twists his hands at ten and two. "If you still want me to--"

"So, was that like your girlfriend or something?" Timmy asks. He pushes the door open a bit. Puts a foot on the ground. His sea tbelt is still on, and Armie turns to face him. "Is that why she was like," he pulls his backpack into his lap. 

"She's my boss," Armie explains. "She's like that sometimes; it has nothing to do with you." 

_It has everything to do with you. And me picking you up after theater like your fucking nanny._

Timmy undoes his seat belt. "Oh, was it not okay that we were there? I didn't want you to get in trouble or anything. Shit, Armie--"

There's a single school bell echoing in the distance. It sounds weird; electric, like a buzz. Not the metallic ring that Armie heard in high school. 

"No, I'd asked. It's okay." 

Timmy nods. Makes a sound like the beginning of a laugh. He pushes the door all the way open. Steps out and leans down. Says, "I have to go. Just text me when you're on your way, I guess. Or whatever."

When he slams the door, Armie doesn't put the car in drive. He squeezes the wheel and watches Timmy walk away. Watches him wave at someone--a girl that Armie has seen at the apartment more than once--and fall in stride next to her. Start to talk with his hands and laugh. Slouch comfortably so she can put an arm around his shoulders.

He doesn't even put the car in drive when Timmy has disappeared into the school because he gets a text. 

nick: _what_  
nick: _the fuck_  
nick: _happened_

Armie puts the car in drive; an SUV behind him honks once, twice. 

nick: _also get me a latte_  
nick: _please and thanks_

Armie gets lost twice on the way to the coffee shop. Drives the speed limit back to the studio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at us, inching forward.


	6. Part One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took forever. Again.

Nick and Armie have been relegated to the break room; a client is getting cold feet. 

It's actually a storage closet that Liz has somehow made welcoming. Comfortable, even, for a room barely big enough to fit two people, especially when one of them is Armie. The microwave dings and Armie pulls out his coffee from the morning. He wasn't able to finish it, not with Liz pretending to check messages when he came back. Not with Nick giving him a _look_ while he took down the seasonal portraits. Wrapped them in moving blankets and stacked them by the door to be carried out to Liz's car later. 

And especially not with Liz just shaking her head and rolling her eyes when Armie offered to drop them off at the storage unit. It felt weird to ask, and Armie's coffee was already lukewarm before he realized why. Before, he never would have asked. He would have taken the portraits without a question. Sure, there might have been a fake squabble; Liz would try to wrestle one of the portraits out of Armie's hands, Nick would make some comment about growing up, and Armie would eventually win. Give Liz a consolatory kiss on the forehead, the cheek, the tip of her nose. Rarely, her lips. When he did, it was soft. More air than skin. 

That thought--that simple memory--makes Armie wish there was a return policy on kisses. Not because he didn't get what he paid for, but because Liz is worth more. Because their time was worth more. And while he tries to wallow in that thought, he can't help but think of Timmy. The way he makes chaste kisses seem deep, which makes Armie feel like he's getting more than he paid for. Simultaneously wondering if he has yet to know the entire cost. 

Armie startles when Nick slams the microwave shut. Straightens up and brings his coffee to his lips. "This," Nick gestures at Armie's torso, face. He peels his banana, which looks too brown for Armie's taste. "Is annoying."

"What?" Armie asks. His coffee is too hot and it scalds his upper lip, his tongue. He tries to soothe both by his tongue against his lip. 

"The whole zoning out thing," Nick says. "You've been doing it ever since you started fucking that--"

"We're not fucking," Armie says, but Nick hasn't stopped talking. 

"--guy. Or, do we call him a kid? Either way, it's getting old." 

Armie freezes. 

Nick takes a bite of his banana and raises his eyebrows. Waits for a moment; they've known one another long enough to know that if Armie doesn't speak after a second or two, he has nothing to say. "Nothing? No explanation?"

Armie shrugs and holds his cup with both hands. The cardboard sleeve is worn from where he fiddled with it all morning. "There's nothing to explain." 

There's anger disguised as a laugh and Nick takes another bite. Examines the second half of the banana and asks, "Well, then I'll explain what this looks like. It looks like you are trying to move on from all of _that_ ," Nick points out the door, and Armie gets it. He really does, even though it's more than Liz, more than their relationship, more than all of that. "With a high schooler, Armie. And that's not fair to you or--"

"I told you, he has nothing to do with me moving on," Armie reminds him. "I've already moved on; you know that. And he's eighteen," he adds. Hisses, because he can hear the steady clack of Liz's heels increasing. 

Nick takes the last bite of his banana and tosses the peel into the organics recycling. So little space, and yet Liz has managed to include three different waste receptacles. Armie imagines it all could have been a lot easier for him. "I don't care if he becomes the youngest mayor or a teenage surgeon. He's still in high school and you're still--" 

They both go silent when Liz comes into view. When she leans into the room, making it seem _that much_ smaller. "Okay, she's ready. Nick, help Armie get some of the lights set up. I think it's going to storm later and the lighting is bad." She's gone again and there is some breathing room. Some, but not much. 

Nick motions to the door. "After you," he says, too soft. Too slow. He wishes Nick hadn't been brought into all of this. Wishes Liz would have kept quiet about it; it's really none of their business. Least of all Liz's. 

Months ago, Armie would never have said that; one of them was always the business of the other two. Months ago, he never would have asked, "What did Liz say?" Armie pauses in the doorway, keeping an eye in the office for Liz's return. Holding himself like a door, solid, but easily moved. 

Nick sighs. "She said she felt stupid. Said she wished it would have at least been someone you have a future with."  
_____

It's not Armie's best shoot, but it's far from bad or even mediocre. He doesn't think he could ever do a bad shoot in this studio; no one is expecting actual art. Pressure is nonexistent because these photographs will rarely be displayed. They will be shared between trusted individuals, looked back on with a fond memory of doing something out of character. Sometimes, they're taken solely for the client. Maybe taken out when they need reassurance that they are beautiful, that they are worthy, that they are human. 

That's what Armie dislikes most about his job; no matter what the lighting is, the subject is skewed based on a mentality, a memory, a moment. 

But it's not a bad shoot at all. It's normal. Nick stays in the shadows, shows up to move a chair, supply a pillow. Slinks back to the shadows to check his texts or play Words with Friends (he's terrible, but Armie admires his persistance.) Liz paces behind Armie and offers helpful posing hints. Fixes the woman's hair and assures her, "You look stunning, absolutely stunning."

And Armie? Armie knows what he looks like, what he sounds like. He knows the effect he can have on clients. He also knows there's a fine line between offering assurance and being yet another creep. He takes the pictures and throws in, "Perfect, good, beautiful," and each time, the client pose is a bit more natural, slightly more confident. 

He remembers how natural Timmy was, almost like he wasn't aware of the camera. Armie wonders what it's like to have that confidence. What it would be like to take candid pictures of Timmy. When he was was part of the landscape, part of the crowd. He's certain Timmy would pull the focus.  
_____

Armie: _running late sorry_

timmy: _you dont have to pick me up_  
timmy: _if you dont want_  
timmy: _nbd_

Armie: _you dont want me to pick you up? i really am just running late im sorry_

timmy: _you can pick me up if you want i don't care_  
timmy: _seroosly this isnt a big deal_

Armie grabs his coat and stares at his phone. It didn't occur to him that Timmy might not want Armie to come. Didn't want him to pick him up. The possibility that this may be over before anything started, before anything happened, before Armie got anywhere hits him It feels like licking a nine-volt battery. The shock of it passing down to his spine, simmering in his toes. It disappears when Nick shoulders past him, asks, "Drinks?"

It's not directed just at Armie, but he doesn't notice it until Liz says, "Can't. Storage unit then pedicure," without looking away from the computer. 

"Drinks?" Nick says again, pulling his coat on. This time, Armie is the only audience member, and Nick raises his eyebrows. Let's him know this isn't up for debate. 

"Drinks," Armie confirms. "Seven o'clock? I can pick you up." Nick looks like he wants to argue, but Armie pulls on his coat and heads for the door. Hears Liz say something about not showing up hungover on Tuesday. He starts and deletes multiple texts, knowing that he needs to respond quickly. Timmy could be getting a ride home right now. Sitting in someone else's passenger seat, telling someone else about his day. Or just sitting in silence. Comfortable silence. 

He walks blindly to the car, eyes focused on "this isnt a big deal."

He unlocks his car. Sits in the driver's seat. He wants to throw his phone and he makes a mini-wind up. Stops short of smashing the phone against the steering wheel and instead says, "It is a big deal," to himself. It's a big deal because, forget the couch, he wants to be back in bed. 

(Wait, don't forget the couch. Armie loved the couch, could live and die there. Or at least visit on the weekends.)

He wants Timmy to know this is a big deal. Let him know that he isn't just a jumping point, a transition, a fading out before his life comes back into focus. That he wants more with Timmy, wants everything Timmy has been offering. That, for Armie, this is everywhere and everything. 

Armie: _it is a big deal and im on my way_

Timmy responds before Armie can even turn the car on. 

timmy: _stop texitng like a weirdo. i miss ur formal texts._  
timmy: _and hurry it's cold_

Armie runs two yellows and rolls through every stop sign. When he pulls up to the school, Timmy is sitting on the steps, headphones on, head bopping slightly. Lips moving to some song Armie has probably never heard. 

He puts the car in park and gets out. Smiles the moment Timmy sees him, the moment he's focused on Armie. Standing and pulling his headphones down to his neck. Holding his bag at his side. "What, going to carry my bag? Open the door for me, too?" he asks. 

"If you want," Armie says. Stops in front of him. Looks around. Sees the dark windows of the school, an empty parking lot to the left. None of it matters. He thinks he would speak up, would ask the same question even if they were fighting for space on the stairs. Asks, "Can I kiss you here?" 

Timmy licks his lips. Shrugs, then nods. "If you want."  
_____

The ride to the apartment is quiet, but Timmy pushes the center console up. Presses his thumb against Armie's thigh. Let's his fingers dip between Armie's legs. Says, "I thought you were second-guessing this." Tries to move closer, but his seat belt locks and he groans. Pulls on it for a second, before retreating fully to the passenger seat. 

Armie takes Timmy's hand and brings it to his lips. Says, "It's just been a weird day."

"Yeah," Timmy agrees. Looks out the window as they turn into the parking lot. "My parents aren't home yet." 

"Your parents aren't--" Armie starts, but he stops himself. "Right, the repeating thing." 

Timmy laughs and squeezes his hand. "They won't be home for like another hour. Would have been longer if you hadn't been late."

Armie swallows and puts the car in park. He wants to put it all in the open, get it all over with so they can have clear air in the apartment. Instead, he opens his door and rushes around the car to open Timmy's. He makes a dramatic gesture as Timmy rolls his eyes and slides out.  
_____

They end up in Timmy's foyer. 

(Timmy's parents' foyer. Armie doesn't understand how they have a small foyer and his apartment has a small area with a shoe rack. It's the same space, but it's not.)

"Don't worry about your shoes," Timmy says, but he's already taking his off. Armie follows suit and lines his up next to Timmy's, which have fallen on their sides. "Do you want something to drink? Water, beer, orange juice? We might have some--"

"I'm good," Armie says. Watches as Timmy drags his feet to the kitchen. Pours himself some orange juice and grabs a banana. "It's weird," he says, motioning around the apartment. "It's like a mirror."

Timmy takes a bite of the banana, a sip of orange juice. Looks around. "Oh, right. Yeah. You have a nicer TV, though."

Armie snorts and turns to where his apartment is windows. Two doors, two bedrooms that don't exist in his own home. It feels like an alternate dimension. He takes a guess and goes left. He's right. 

Timmy's room is not what Armie expects. His bed is made and the books on his desk are stacked neatly. His hamper is overflowing, but there are no socks on the floor; he has art on the walls instead of posters like Armie had when he was growing up. No photography, but art with shapes and colors that Armie doesn't really understand. That Armie wrote about in art school, discussed at length during lectures, but really never _got_. "My friend paints," Timmy says from the doorway. 

Armie looks over his shoulder. Watches Timmy close the door with his foot. Walk into the room and take another bite of his banana; the peel is slightly green and the flesh looks too white. He sets his orange juice on the small table by his bed (red sheets, a striped grey comforter. One pillow.) "They're good," Armie comments. He's not sure if that's true, but they're not bad. He knows shit when he sees shit; this is not shit.

"She is," Timmy agrees. He tosses the remainder of his banana in the trash next to his desk; Armie never pictured Timmy's bedroom being this small. There's a thin silence in the room. The bed creaks as Timmy sits down. Armie wants to join him. Wants to recreate last night, but take it further. Wants to silence Timmy before he assures Armie that he's not a virgin, before he gives him the go-ahead. Instead, Timmy says, "Why were you late? Boss mad at you?" His voice is steady, rehearsed. 

"She's," Armie starts. He traces his fingers along Timmy's desk chair. The edge of the desk. Notices a stack of papers tucked under a manila envelope that is addressed to an office at NYU. "I mean, she _is_ my boss, but he's also," he sighs. Looks over at Timmy, who is cross legged on his bed. Toying with the comforter. He's very clearly not going to let this drop, not after he maybe spent all day thinking about the tension this morning.

"Very pretty," Timmy offers. 

Armie picks up the papers; they're paper-clipped together, not stapled. The first page is a title page.

_Seventeen Going on Eighteen: What I Did This Winter_  
Timothée Chalamet  
New York University 

_Author's Note: Submission for Freshman Entrance  
_

"She is," Armie agrees. Thumbs the corner of the pages and listens to them flip against one another. Flicks them back the opposite way; hopes he doesn't smudge the pages, but doesn't stop. "Listen, Liz and I have a bit of a history. And she was," Armie closes his eyes. Doesn't want to get into this right now. He had plans. He _has_ plans, they just aren't very clear at this point. "Just, uncomfortable."

"Makes two of us," Timmy says. "Three?"

Armie laughs. "Definitely. But, it really isn't anything to worry about. We're friends now and," he taps the essay on the desk. "And it's really nothing you need to worry about." 

"Promise?"

Armie hates making promises, but he knows this is one he can keep. "Absolutely. Now, I didn't realize you were an actor and a writer. What's this contest shit?" He barely has the sentence out before the bed creaks again and Timmy is grabbing the essay from him. Fumbling for the manila envelope and hastily trying to slide the papers inside. "Was this a--"

"I'm _not_ a writer, and this essay is awful," Timmy stammers. Armie can see he's creased the pages as he closes the envelope. "Just this dumb thing that's supposed to look better for admissions."

Armie leans back against the desk; it's lower than he expected. "Thought you were already accepted," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. Trying not to overthink the Liz conversation. 

(But, fuck, should he have said more? Explained every detail? God, that would require too much. The backstory and explaining his mom, his career, his whole fucking childhood. They haven't even had a real date; should he have said less? Should he have just shrugged it off?)

Armie clears his throat. Timmy coughs. "Yeah, I was, but it looks good for, like," he rolls his eyes, but doesn't let them return to Armie's face right away. His cheeks are red and he scratches his collarbone, then runs his knuckles along his jaw. "Okay, I just entered it for fun. But, it's terrible and I don't want anyone reading it, okay?"

They pause and look at one another. Timmy holds the envelope to his chest. 

"I won't," Armie promises. Takes a step forward and pulls the envelope away. Tosses it on the bed and then kisses Timmy. 

Like everything with Timmy, it feels like Armie is on a merry-go-round with his eye closed. If he opens his eyes, the scenery would be a blur. He could focus, but it would dull the dizziness. Sharpen the edges and bring clarity to the concrete all around.

Armie doesn't want that, so he squeezes his eyes shut and blindly turns. Pushes Timmy back until they're stopped by the desk, until Timmy is partially seated on the organized surface. Armie opens his eyes enough to make sure they aren't knocking over one of the perfect stacks of books, a cup of pencils. "This okay?" Armie asks against Timmy's lips. Laughs when Timmy nods and wraps his arms around Armie's neck. "Good," he says and tugs on Timmy's lower lip with his teeth, lets his hands stray down his sides. Tucks his thumbs into the elastic waist of Timmy's jeans. His morning joke about men's maternity wear seems too distant for this reality, but Armie smiles at the memory. The way Timmy had spun for him, shook his hips. 

Now, Armie pushes. Pushes his mouth harder against Timmy's so their teeth bump and tongues slide, so that Timmy opens up more and just takes it. Lets Armie fuck into his mouth while he pushes his pants down Timmy's hips. Pushes him against the desk, then thinks better of it once his pants are down to mid-thigh, pulling Timmy's boxers along the way. Thinks better of it because he wants his hands everywhere, so he slides his hand around to cup Timmy's ass, pleased at how easily the flesh fits in his palms. 

Armie pulls back, just enough to focus on Timmy, just enough to make sure this won't be a repeat of the couch, of the first time, the first try. Outside of Timmy, everything is a blur. Movement on repeat, spinning around both of them. But Timmy is solid, Timmy is open-mouthed, hands cupping Armie's cheeks. Trying to lean back into a kiss while simultaneously pressing into Armie's hands. His cock is hard against Armie's thigh. 

"Yeah?" Armie asks, at the same time Timmy breathes, "Fuck, stop thinking so much and touch me."

This time, when Armie reaches for Timmy's cock, there's no hesitation. Timmy pushes back against Armie, his body loose and needy. Groans when Armie wraps a hand around him, whispers, "Harder. We have to be quick," against Armie's cheek before moving his head to Armie's shoulder. Rocking his hips into Armie's hand and, every now and then, kissing Armie's neck like an afterthought. Like a promise of "Later," and "I will, I really will."

Afterwards, Armie says it's okay. That he really has to go, "Really. Nick is going to kill me if I'm late," he said, swatting Timmy's hands from his belt. Laughing and explaining, "I can't show up with a boner, either, so seriously. We can pick this up some other time."

"Promise?" Timmy asks. His eyes are heavy. Armie nods and kisses his cheek, his forehead. "Okay."  
_____

Armie puts his car in park outside Nick's place. Honks twice and grabs his phone. 

timmy: _youve made me dickweak_  
timmy: _like umable to function bc of dick related activities_  
timmy: _wanna suck your cock when y ou get back_  
timmy: _when you getting back?_  
timmy: _is that okay_  
timmy: _do you want that?_

Armie snorts and quickly responds; he can see Nick jogging down the steps. 

Armie: _You are ridiculous. I'll be home around ten._

Nick opens the door as Armie lifts his hips and tucks his phone in his pocket. As he asks, "Who are you texting?"

This time, when Nick mocks, "No one," Armie answers, "Timmy." Repeats his name again so Nick can actually hear. Tries to ignore Nick's glare as he puts the car in drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late, so I did minimal editing. Apologies.


	7. Part One.

Armie buys the first round. Not because he feels like he has to, but because he feels like he should. When it comes right down to it, he doesn't deserve Nick. Because Nick had to deal with Liz when Armie was gone, but he still tried to get "the gang" back together for drinks. Because Nick is always trying to pick up the mess, trying to smooth things over. 

Because Nick makes small talk until he's halfway through his beer, then asks, "So, do you see a future with him?" Armie knows Nick is wording that differently question in his head. knows exactly what Nick is thinking, feeling, assuming. Hell, he'd probably assume the same thing if Nick was messing around with an eighteen year old. 

( _Messing around? Is that what this is?_ Armie signals for the waiter. _That's not what this is. Not at all._ )

"We're not even dating," Armie insists. Orders two of the same from a waiter who doesn't write it down; Armie watches him walk to another table. Eyes his own drink. Almost empty.

"Not even dating?" Nick repeats. 

Armie nods. "We're just, you know, getting to know one another. And I like him and," he shrugs. 

Nick nods. "Right, so," grins, all teeth. "Do you see a future with him?" 

Armie rolls his eyes, but can't deny Nick's stare. His insistent silence. "I don't know. I guess. But he's like, going to college in a few months and I don't want him to think he's--"

The waiter walks by them again and this time, Nick rolls his eyes. "This guy is the worst. Another brown?" He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and waves Armie off when he does the same. Pauses. "Just, Armie? You spent four years doing something hurtful because you were worried about what others thought. So maybe, this time," Nick scratches the back of his neck. Starts to turn towards the bar. "Maybe don't do that this time." 

Later, Armie pulls up in front of Nick's place. Asks, "You alright?" 

Nick nods, slowly. Opens the door and swings his legs out. He's had a lot more to drink than Armie, enough that Armie was extremely glad he'd offered to pick Nick up, and for a moment, he's worried Nick's going to puke. He hasn't seen Nick puke in years. Thought they'd gotten past that, matured. Hell, they drink beer with _a story_ now, if Timmy's commentary is any indication. 

But Nick doesn't throw up. He turns his head, slurs, "I really liked her," like the words are too big for his mouth. Armie swallows and nods. Opens his mouth (to apologize? To just acknowledge him? To make an excuse like usual?), but Nick stands up. Says, "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't tell Liz I'm hungover," and then slams the door shut. 

Armie watches him until he's safely inside. Laughs when Nick stumbles and steps on a shrub; seems to yell at it. There's no way Liz won't be able to tell he's hungover. She knows them both too well.  
_____

Armie: _Raincheck?_

He kicks his shoes off and locks the door. A lamp is on in the living room, but he leaves it and goes to bed. Crawls under the covers; keeps his clothes on. He's toeing off his socks when his phone rings. 

One ring, two rings, a sigh. "Yeah, hey." 

"You're not freaking out, are you?" Timmy asks. There's music in the background, soft. Soft like his voice and the glow from the living room. 

"Not freaking out," Armie answers. Successfully frees both feet and scrunches his toes. "It's just late and I'm--"

( _What are you? Jesus Christ, Armie. He really liked her._ )

"Freaking out," Timmy fills in. He goes silent and Armie closes his eyes. Pictures Timmy at his desk, swiveling back and forth. Not big, large sweeps, but small. Inching and calculating. Left, right. There's a metallic clink every now and then and Armie wants to tell him to tighten his chair. Fix it before it breaks. To stop fidgeting, to stop moving, to just stop. 

Instead, he rolls on his side. Thinks, _Nick is too nice._ Says, "I'm a shitty person, Tim." It feels weird calling him Tim. He mouths the name a few times; decides it's not right. "I'm a shitty person, Timmy."

He blinks, longer than usual. Long enough to make the silence feel like a moment, long enough for the corners of his eyes to soften and dry, long enough for the pain behind his temples to subside for a moment. Long enough that when he opens his eyes again the room is darker and he needs to readjust. 

"I don't think so," Timmy says. He must hear Armie start to speak, even though Armie doesn't remember trying to say anything, because he quickly adds, "No, shut up for a second. You don't get to decide if you're a shitty person. And I get that this is, you know, a weird situation. But in a few months, I'll be out of high school. I'll be graduated and--"

"It's not about that," Armie corrects. "It's not about you."

He doesn't want to do this right now. Not like this, not with Timmy. Not over the phone and not to Timmy, whose voice cracks when he asks, "Can I come over then? And you can tell me what this is about?" 

"Timmy, I--"

"No, I'm coming over. You don't get to start this and then just end it, alright? That's not fair."

Armie closes his eyes again. Listens to Timmy's breathing and tries to match his own breaths to the steady inhale and exhale. "I'm not ending things, okay? I just--"

"I meant the conversation, but yeah, now that you mention it, that too. You don't get to make all the decisions here. You're not the only one in this relationship." 

The word relationship throws Armie for a moment. Throws him because he hasn't been sure what this all is, what Timmy wants out of it, out of him. He mouths the word once, twice. Asks, "Can we go for or a walk or something?" 

_____

It's cold, and Armie can't help but laugh when Timmy meets him outside. His regular joggers, tucked into wool socks. Work boots, loosely tied. A hoodie, pulled up to cover his hair, a few of the longer curls sticking out. His coat looks two sizes too big, or maybe he looks two sizes too small. "You're ridiculous," Armie says, but he steps closer and wraps his arm around Timmy's shoulders. Leans down and kisses the corner of Timmy's mouth, heart settling when Timmy turns into it. Playfully nips at Armie's lower lip. 

"And you're dramatic, Mr. Woe-Is-Me." He slides his arm around Armie's waist, tries to slide his hand in Armie's coat pocket. His arm isn't quite long enough. Starts leading them down the sidewalk, away from the parking lot, away from the apartment. 

The street lamp closest to them flickers off when they're steps away, and Armie thinks about Nick trying to explain to him and Liz that he experiences Street Light Interference Phenomenon. Remembers Liz, slapping the wobbly bar table and saying, "Shut the fuck up, Nick," while laughing. Pulling up Wikipedia and quoting, "'SLI has never been demonstrated to occur in a scientific experiment, and those who claim the ability have been found to be unable to reproduce the effect on demand.' You are full of so much bullshit, Nick," she'd said, and Nick had tried to coerce them all to go on a walk so he could prove it. It'd been too cold and Armie rolled his eyes, while Liz slipped on her coat. Finished her drink, repeated, "So much bullshit," but followed Nick outside. 

They'd returned laughing, Liz's cheeks flushed from the wind and Nick's flushed, probably from relentless teasing from Liz. Nick always took Liz's relentless teasing better than Armie. 

"So," Timmy says. Urging, but not pushing. 

Armie nods and squeezes Timmy's shoulder. A little harder than needed, making sure Timmy can feel it through his layers. At the end of the block, he steers them left. Holds Timmy back for a second, checks both ways, then crosses the street. Can basically feel Timmy's eye roll, like it's a full body gyration. "I wasn't completely honest earlier." 

"About freaking out?" Timmy asks. "Yeah, I'd say so." 

"No, when you asked about Liz." Timmy hums. Clicks his tongue, but doesn't say anything. Keeps walking with Armie, though they're headed towards the closed coffee shop, dark streets. "I mean, I didn't lie. I just probably should have told you more." 

"Probably," Timmy agrees. 

Armie licks his lips, spits out, "We were engaged." 

He feels the stutter of Timmy's steps, but is relieved when Timmy's hand squeezes his waist. Holds on tight for a moment, before pulling away, reaching up to grasp Armie's hand. Untangles it from his body and slips their fingers together. Run his thumb along Armie's knuckle. Slows their pace and eventually stops; turns to Armie and looks up. Waits. 

"For over a year. Dated for three. She basically lived with me, but she works a lot so--" Armie cuts himself off before he goes into one of the many ridiculously tiny reasons things didn't work out. One of the tiny reasons that he could always blame on other people, but they never stacked up to the main reason. He was the main reason. "We should be on our honeymoon right now, actually. Jamaica." Timmy hums approvingly; Armie assumes he's already been. His family travels. "But, I called it off."

"Because you didn't love her?" Timmy asks, and there's the sound of hope in his voice. Armie wants to fill the air with reassurance, but he doesn't want to skirt around the truth anymore. 

"I love her very much," Armie says. Sighs and closes his eyes. Raises his free hand to his forehead. Scratches his temple. 

He's never said it all out loud. Not to Nick, definitely not to Liz. And he's not sure if he's willing to admit it all now. Not because it's Timmy and not because he's a high schooler. No, because it's his mom and his childhood and his entire _life_ that he's been hiding behind for decades. Because it's a lot to process, a lot to say, a lot for a Monday. 

"If I promise to tell you everything later, can I just tell you the Spark Notes version right now?" Armie laughs, but he's not joking. 

Timmy sees the humor; his eye crinkle with a smile and he says, "You can tell me whatever you want. I'm never going to force you to do something you aren't comfortable with." 

Armie licks his lips and nods. "I called off the wedding because I was going through with it to get my family off my back. And that wasn't fair to Liz." 

_Wasn't fair to Liz, wasn't fair to Nick,_ he wants to add, but he doesn't. 

Timmy nods. Squeezes Armie's hand before releasing it. He shoves his hands in his pockets, says, "Okay," and starts to walk again. 

"Okay?" Armie repeats. Watches as Timmy takes too many steps without looking back. Tries to repeat the tone of Timmy's 'Okay' in his head, tries to place the intonation on a chart of possible meanings. It comes up flat. 

Timmy has crossed three sidewalk cracks before he stops, turns around. Asks, "Are you coming or not?"

_____

By morning, Armie seems to be forgiven. 

The electric notice of his entrance is met by Liz's smirk. "Are you going to be wearing sunglasses all day, too?" 

Armie smiles, grins when she sees Nick is hunched over the desk, head buried in his arms. Hood pulled up and sunglasses on. "Nope," he says. "Normal, functioning adult at your service." He does a miniature bow before taking off his coat. Hanging it up. 

"You always were my favorite," Liz jokes, but he can see her hand caress the back of Nick's neck. 

Their day goes smoothly and, if Armie squints, everything seems normal. He knows he's far from being able to tell them dumb stories about Timmy. So far from answering, "How was the rest of your night?" by truthfully answering, "We went for a walk and Timmy told me about visiting France two summers ago, about how he'd really like to be a director but feels he needs experience in front of the camera first." He'd leave out the part where they walked by darkened windows, pointing out different places they like the best. How Timmy stopped in front of his favorite cupcake shop, pushed Armie against the window and kissed his lips, bit his neck (soft, gentle, mature enough not to leave a mark, even though Armie wanted to see every trace of Timmy in the morning) and said, "Don't think I'm forgetting about that raincheck, Mr. Hammer." 

He would definitely leave out the part where the words "Mr. Hammer" went straight to his cock and he had to push Timmy away. Grab his hand to keep him close and say, "We should head back." 

But everything goes smoothly. Almost normal, like before, even though _before_ isn't a place they will ever get back to.

After work, when he walks through the apartment lobby, he notices the lights on in the business center. He peaks in, sees Timmy wrestling with the printer. Some papers are jammed. Asks, "Troubles?" Chuckles when Timmy jumps. "Here, let me," Armie says. He gently pushes Timmy aside and firmly grabs the papers. Pulls them slowly while Timmy tries to cut back in. 

"I've got it, I've got it," Timmy rushes. Adds too much pressure to the papers and they rip. "Fuck," he swears, but keeps pulling. Tugs everything away from Armie who raises his hands, backs up. Apologizes without meaning it. 

"Sorry, just thought I'd help." 

Timmy folds the papers in half, then slides them under his laptop. The document is up, and Armie can see the title page; it's the same document from Timmy's desk. "Well, I can use a printer," Timmy says. He closes the screen just enough so Armie can't see it. 

"Looks like it," Armie teases, and Timmy flushes. Drops down onto one of the chairs and looks up at Armie. He bites his lip, runs in back and forth along his front teeth before letting it go. It's red. Swollen like he's been chewing on it for a while. Like he's been worrying it; like Armie should probably kiss it. "What's wrong with the copy in your room?" 

"Someone sat on it," Timmy says. Rolls his eyes, but he's smiling like the memory is fresh in his mind. "Now, can you go away so I can finish this? I need to get it in the mail." He swats at Armie's knee. 

"So secretive," Armie says, trying to make it sound like a tease, but really wanting to ask, 'Why so secretive?' He doesn't; it's none of his business. He pushes Timmy's curls back from his face, runs his thumb along Timmy's cheekbone. Backs up until he's passing through the doorway. Hesitates. "You free on Saturday?" 

Timmy has opened his laptop, just enough for his eyes only. Absently answers, "Yeah, why?" 

"Thought we could get lunch. Or dinner." Waits for Timmy to look up. Smiles, "Maybe I could cash in that raincheck afterwards." 

Timmy blindly clicks on his computer and the printer starts to whir. He grins, all teeth. "Yeah, I think I can pencil you in. Seven o'clock?"

"It's a date," Armie says. He watches the first page start to shuffle from the printer and laughs when Timmy shoos him away.


	8. Part One.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's a scene in here that was written for chapter two; remember how this was supposed to be five chapters at the most?

timmy: _my mom wants to know if teh headhsots will be ready before i graduate college_  
timmy: _lol she just told me to tell you that she did not say that_  
timmy: _spoiler: she did_

Armie grins at this phone and shoves it into his back pocket. He grabs his coat, asks, "Did Nick already leave?"

Liz hums without looking up from the computer. 

"Rude," Armie mutters to himself, but Liz makes an agreeable noise. "Any plans for the weekend?" He zips up his coat. Adjusts the collar. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, remembers how Liz used to call him her Monkey Man whenever he would fidget. Crossing his arms only to uncross them. Tuck his hands between his knees, idly bite the side of his thumb, crack his fingers, just let his arms hang. He never seemed in control of his body, not like Liz. Right now, he settles for pushing his hands in his coat pockets. Fingers his keys, an old receipt. 

Liz shrugs. "Yeah, brunch tomorrow with the girls, then I have a contractor coming over later." In the past, Armie would handle those things, but now he doesn't even ask what she needs a contractor for. "Nothing as exciting as what you've probably got planned," she remarks. At that, she looks up and winks. 

Armie know what it looks like, knows exactly how people _in the know_ would judge this situation, that comment, her look. But he knows better--he knows Liz better--so he rolls his eyes. Says, "It's just a date."

"First date?" Armie nods. Pulls a hand from one of his pockets to rub at his cheek; the skin feels warm and he hopes it doesn't look pink. Even Armie gets the off nature of this conversation; he wants to get out of here but he also wants to talk. Wants to talk to Liz. Liz asks again, "No, like, first _date_?"

He gets the emphasis, gets her question, but still struggles to form an answer. So he nods again. Covers his mouth with his hand. Waits. 

He doesn't have to wait long, because Liz grins. Smiles. "Good." Nods and adds, "Good, I'm glad it's with Timmy, then. He seems nice." 

"He is," Armie rushes. He doesn't ask how she knew; he already knows Nick can't keep his mouth shut. Should know better than sharing any of his life details--any of these details--with Nick. But knowing better has never stopped him before. "I told him about us."

Liz looks back at her computer. Hums a tone that says, "Okay, and?"

"I mean, not everything. Just that we were engaged. And now we're, you know." Armie puts his hand back in his pocket and finds a quarter. Flips it between his fingers. "Not."

The glow from the computer disappears and Liz's face darkens. She stands up straight and smooths her hands over the front desk. "Well, it's probably best to let him know that sooner than later." She doesn't look up, but he can tell she's fiddling with something. A paperclip, a rubberband, an obvious statement. "If it was me, I'd tell him everything."

"But, it's not you," Armie says. He rolls his eyes at his juvenile retort. Rolls his eyes at how he jumps to the defense when there was no need to even move. "I mean, yeah, I should. I will. Just not right this second. It's a lot for..." he licks his lips. It's a lot for anyone to take in, especially on a first date. Especially in what could be Timmy's first serious relationship. It's a lot for anyone, but especially for this situation. 

"I know, I know," Liz smiles. "When the time's right. But, Armie? Don't wait too long, okay?" 

Armie nods and pulls his keys out of his pocket. "I don't plan on it."

When he gets to his car, he lets the engine warm up even though he can hear Liz reminding him (usually when they were already late for an event or party) that there was no point in doing that for more than thirty seconds.

Armie: _That's so nice; your mom actually thinks you'll graduate college._

timmy: _WOW_  
timmy: _OUCH_  
timmy: _jut for that im ordering two desserts tmrw_

Tomorrow. Armie smiles. 

_____

Armie retouches the headshots like he's restoring a fine portrait. He turns the television volume to a whisper and sits on the floor. Hunches over his laptop perched on the coffee table and carefully removes a stray hair from Timmy's forehead. A blemish forming on his jaw that Armie never noticed. Armie wonders if it's formed into an actual pimple; almost wishes it has because a flaw would make this all a little easier. Less perfect.

It shouldn't take long, but it does. Timmy had no requests, not like some of the clients. No demands to remove cellulite or crow's feet or anything else that makes someone human. He leaves every mole, every dark hair between his eyebrows. Only removes what shouldn't be there, like the hint of a mustache that Armie sincerely hopes Timmy doesn't try to grow. 

When he's done, he uploads everything to the client portal. Bypasses where he normally needs Liz's authorization. Once he has the link and password, he hesitates before texting the information to Timmy. Worries that Timmy will notice the care he put into the pictures, that it will somehow reveal that this is more important to him than it should be. 

But, he presses send and then tosses his phone on the couch. Doesn't go after it when it slides between the cushions. Instead, he goes to the kitchen and opens the cupboard. Hopes there's some ramen.  
____

Later, Armie goes to bed early to avoid overthinking why Timmy hasn't responded. He plugs his phone in and is settling against the pillows when the screen lights up. 

timmy: _mr hammer you made a man out of me_  
timmy: _but no really my mom wont stop crying about how i'm her little man now_  
timmy: _its great for my confidence_  
timmy: _anyways what up?_

Armie rolls his eyes but reaches for the phone. 

Armie: _I'm glad she likes them. I'm just getting ready for bed._

timmy: _oh my god you are so old its friday_  
timmy: _got your spectacles on_  
timmy: _gotta read a chapter of your biography on bill clinton before lights out_  
timmy: _are you wearing your nightgown too?_

Armie snorts and rolls his eyes again. Before he can think too much about it, he pushes the comforter down to his thighs and takes a picture of his bare torso. Examines the picture quickly and bites his lip. Is glad that most of his face is hidden in a shadow. 

He presses send, adds:

Armie: _Something like that._

He immediately checks the picture again; debates asking Timmy to delete it, but he doesn't want him to. Decides that he's barely recognizable in the picture, so it's okay. It's fine. He's wearing boxers, it's fine. "That was dumb," he tells his empty bed. 

timmy: _didnt know we were at that stage in our relationship_

A picture of Timmy loads. His face clearly visible, shirt pulled up to his armpits as he reclines against his pillows. His free hand resting on his lower abdomen, middle and ring fingers tucked below the waistband of his briefs. Armie doesn't let his eye linger on the faintly visible tent, doesn't let himself ponder if it's a wrinkle in the fabric, or if it's Timmy. 

timmy: _if you want more you just hve to ask mr hammer_

Armie: _Don't call me that._

Armie blushes. Pulls the comforter up to his chest. Tries to hide that he likes when Timmy calls him that. 

timmy: _k then just ask armie_

He wants to. He wants Timmy to come over, to slip under the covers and warm his feet against Armie's calves. Armie is about to ask him to when he thinks, "It's not a school night," and that stops him. Almost makes him turn his phone off, but he doesn't want to leave Timmy like that, doesn't want Timmy to assume he is being ignored like Armie assumed the prior week. 

Armie: _Are we still on for tomorrow?_

timmy: _duh_  
timmy: _;)_

Armie: _Okay. Night, Timmy._

timmy: _goodnight, old man_  
timmy: _have fun at silver sneakers in the AM_

Armie's brows furrow with confusion, but then he gets it. Laughs.

Armie: _You're such an ass._

timmy: _your ass_

Armie puts his phone down before he gets dragged into yet another back and forth with Timmy. 

In the morning, when he wakes up, there's one last text from Timmy. 

timmy: _sleep well, armie_

_____

Armie reminds himself that it could always be worse; Nick could be here in person. Instead, he's on speakerphone, so at least Armie can hide every eye roll. He stares in the full-length mirror that hangs on his closet door. Decides that the crew neck t-shirt looks too casual and pulls it over his head. Tosses it to the bed and then returns to his closet. 

"Have you asked him what color tie he's wearing?" Nick asks, and Armie doesn't want to fall into any sort of trap, but now Nick has him worried. What if Timmy is dressed up? He's proven to have the closet to do so, but Armie had texted him this morning that he got reservations at The Olive Tree. It's relatively new, but a quick Google search would show that it's casual. Maybe not the place to wear jorts, but definitely not the type of place to wear coordinated, semi-formal outfits. 

"What color tie?" Armie asks. He holds the maroon v-neck in his hands and turns his ear to the phone. "We're going to--"

"No, not for tonight," Nick laughs. "I meant for prom. You know, so you can get his corsage." 

Armie pulls the shirt on and glares at his reflection. "Men don't wear corsages, idiot." 

Nick laughs and says, "Okay, sure. Anyways, Liz and I are going out for coffee tomorrow. Maybe brunch. She likes brunch, right?"

Armie finds his grey cardigan and slips his arms into it. It's a bit tight, but it doesn't look wrinkled like the rest. He should have done laundry. 

He contemplates the question, the casual way Nick slipped it in. Answers, "Loves it. Are you two..."

The silence seems to swallow the air in the room. Armie isn't sure which answer he'd prefer. Yes and everything changes; no and everything stays the same. He wants both. 

"It's just brunch," Nick responds. Asks, "That's okay, right?"

"No, yeah, I don't care," Armie says. He really doesn't. He goes to button the cardigan, then decides against it. "She likes that Nico's place."

"Nice. I think I went there with you guys once. They have the--"

Armie says, "Bloody Mary bar."

"Right. She, ugh," he stutters and Armie walks across the room to grab his phone. Takes it off speaker and presses it to his ear, knowing perfectly well what he's about to say. Doesn't want it filling the air. "She said she talked to you."

Armie nods. Bites his lip and sits down on the edge of the bed. He curls his socked feet against the floor; debates if he should wear sneakers or loafers. Probably sneakers. 

He waits. 

Waits until he hears Nick sigh on the other end, until the silence steps past the awkward point, until Nick finally breaks it. "I know I haven't really been a great friend about all of this, and I'll admit that I'm still waiting for my 'Told Ya So,' moment, so maybe I'm not the best person to talk to about all of this," he admits, "But you can talk to me about all of this."

Armie nods. "Okay."

"Okay?" Armie sighs and rolls his eyes. "Okay, well. I hope you have fun tonight, Armie." He sounds sincere.

When Armie hangs up, he pockets his phone. Cements his decision to wear sneakers.

_____

In the car, Timmy connects his phone to bluetooth and plays his music too loud. When Armie moves to turn the volume down, Timmy grabs his hand and pulls it into his lap. Says, "It's just getting to the good part," while lacing his fingers with Armie's. Armie grins and taps his thumb against Timmy's knuckles. Stops at a light and looks over at Timmy, who's mouthing the words to the song but stops when he feels Armie's eyes on him. Takes the moment to lean across the console and kiss Armie. It's probably supposed to be quick, but Armie takes his hand off the steering wheel to cup the back of Timmy's head, hold him in place. Lets himself feel the warmth of Timmy's lips, the awkward puff of an exhale against his cupid's bow. The slight sweat of Timmy's palm. 

He doesn't pull back until Timmy chuckles against his lips, "The light's green, dork."

_____

They didn't need reservations. 

(Armie had called on Thursday. Requested a table towards the back and told himself it was because he wanted some privacy. Wanted time to talk to Timmy and not worry about a cold breeze every time someone opened the door, about the chatter of a loud booth nearby, about being on display in a front window.)

They didn't need them, but Armie still wants the table in the back. He wants it, but doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to quite literally push Timmy into a corner, so when the hostess asks, "Is a booth okay?" Armie doesn't motion to the booth in the back. To the table with a folded "RESERVED" note card in the middle. He just reiterates the question to Timmy, who nods, and then follows the hostess to a booth near the window. Guides Timmy with a hand on the small of his back. Lets Timmy sit down first, and exhales when Armie is left with the side facing out into the restaurant. 

"I've never been here," Timmy asks. He picks up the beer menu, then slides it across the table to Armie. Looks down at the food menu, then up at Armie. "Come here often?" He winks and nudges Armie's calf with his foot. 

Around them, there's the buzz of conversation and Armie glances around. Looks for glares, for anyone diverting their eyes the moment he catches them. He finds no one and looks across the table at Timmy. "No, this is my first time." Wishes he could tell Timmy everything, explain that this is really his first time, his first everything. If not literally, then mentally. A clean slate, a fresh start. How things should have been. 

Timmy leans forward, reaches both hands across the table and licks his lips. Armie gives him one of his hands, tries not to glance around the restaurant when Timmy envelopes it with his own. "Hey," Timmy whispers. Blinks and then nods when Armie's eyes land on his. "There you are. I'm nervous too, okay?"

"Okay," Armie says. A deep breath fills his lungs and he doesn't look around this time. Just brings his other hand on top of the table and taps his fingers along Timmy's knuckles. "Okay."

_____

Armie isn't thinking and orders a beer. Apologizes, but Timmy laughs and says, "Why? I'm getting a milkshake. And, can I get a water with that?" he asks the waitress. 

They talk. They talk about how Timmy's mom cries about everything related to Timmy's graduation. How she will refer to him as her "baby boy" and "little man" in the same sentence. Timmy tells him that he's excited to graduate, like he's just waiting around to actually start his life at this point, and Armie assures him that he'll miss it. He doesn't want to tell him to slow down and enjoy everything, doesn't want to tell him how quickly the days start to pass, but he thinks it. 

After their food comes, Armie talks about photography. Or, Timmy asks him questions and Armie tries to answer them. Tries to explain how he transitioned from art shows and craft fairs to middle-aged women in lingerie. Only goes off on one tangent about how he wishes he could take a summer off and travel. How he just needs that one trip, that one shot, that one chance. 

They don't order dessert, ("I have ice cream at my apartment," Armie says, and that's that. 

"Raincheck, please?" Timmy jokes, faking a signal to the waiter.)

and the conversation slows down. Timmy slurps at his milkshake and Armie finishes the last sip of his beer. Asks, "Did you get that essay sent out?"

Timmy pushes his milkshake away and nods. "Yeah." 

"You ever going to tell me what it's about?" 

With a one-eyed squint toward the ceiling and a scrunch of his upper lip, Timmy shakes his head. "No, I don't think so." 

"Why, is it about me?" Armie badgers. Nudges Timmy's calf with his toe. 

Timmy is quick to shake his head. "No, it's just this dumb essay for a writing club. Incoming freshman have to do this public reading if they want to be accepted their first semester. They just needed my draft to make sure it's not awful or whatever."

"Public reading? Can simple plebs like myself come?"

At that, Timmy sits up straight and looks around the restaurant. Swallows. "I'd really prefer you don't," he answers. 

"Am I that embarrassing?" Armie laughs and pulls his wallet out. Taps the corner of it on the table and tries not to read too far into the rigidity of Timmy's posture. Tries not to judge this entire moment, tries not to let it wipe out any sense of normality he's started to sink into. Tries not to think that Timmy doesn't want a relationship from _now_ to make itself too welcome in his future.

"No, no," Timmy rushes and reaches for his own wallet. He holds it under the table. "It's just this dumb thing. I even banned my family from coming," he explains. "I get stage fright."

Armie nods. Wants to call out the soon-to-be theater student on what is clearly--at the very least--a white lie. But he doesn't. "Alright, well, tell me when it is and you can come to my place afterwards. Drink away your post-performance jitters."

The check comes and they both reach for it, but Armie is faster. "I can pay half," Timmy says, and Armie just rolls his eyes.

_____

They don't bother with ice cream. Armie doesn't even lock the front door; he follows Timmy to the bedroom and before he knows it, Timmy's on top of him, pulling his shirt over his head. Armie isn't exactly sure where or when he lost his cardigan, his shirt. He gasps when Timmy's hands move to his pants, says, "We can slow down if you--"

Timmy looks up, but doesn't stop tugging at Armie's button, his zipper. Doesn't hesitate pulling Armie's pants down his thighs. "I've been wanting to suck your cock for what feels like a decade, so shut up." Tugs Armie's pants off one leg, then the other and throws them across the room. Crooks his fingers under the waistband of Armie's boxers and then stops. Searches for eye contact and says, "Unless _you_ want to slow down." 

At first, Armie thinks it's one of Timmy's flirtatious jabs, but Timmy doesn't push, doesn't make another movement forward until Armie shakes his head. "Definitely not. Just didn't want you to--"

"Oh my _God_ ," Timmy says and he pulls Armie's boxers down. Wraps a hand around the base of his semi-hard cock and then bends until Armie shudders at the feeling of his breath. "Seriously, this isn't my first time so you can stop with all," he waves his free hand in Armie's general direction, then settles it on his hip, "that." 

And, God, Armie couldn't take things slow if he wanted to once Timmy leans down another inch and opens his mouth around the head of his cock. Armie squeezes his eyes, positive that this will be over too soon if he watches. He settles for resting one hand on Timmy's shoulder and fisting the other in the pillow next to his head. Focuses on the slide of Timmy's tongue, the firm grip of his wet lips. The vibrations of Timmy's moans.

When Armie dares to open his eyes, he sees Timmy has settled with his legs to the side, one hand inside his boxers. The movements are clear and Armie says, "Don't touch yourself. Want you to come in my mouth." At that, Timmy's hand stills and he moves to kneel between Armie's legs. Braces his hands on Armie's thighs and takes his cock deeper. Eyes closed or open, Armie didn't stand a chance. When he comes, he is only able to get, "I'm," out as a warning before Timmy is swallowing around him, urging him on with his hands soothing Armie's thighs. 

Armie's abdomen is still twitching when he pushes Timmy onto his back and helps him pull his boxers off. He gives himself the briefest of moments to scan Timmy's body, to burn it into his memory. Every soft dip and harsh curve. Smooth flesh contrasted by unexpected tufts of hair. "You really don't have to--" Timmy blushes, but he's cut off by Armie's tongue licking a stripe down to the base of his cock. "Okay, nevermind, yeah," Timmy body buckles slightly before relaxing against the mattress.

When Timmy comes, he makes a choking sound and doesn't get around to a warning. Armie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Guesses, "No one's ever sucked your cock before?" Bites away a grin when Timmy tucks himself back into his briefs and shakes his head. They both roll on their sides and Timmy closes his eyes. "Seriously? I thought you did this _all the time,_ " Armie jokes. He props his head up on his fist and reaches a hand out to touch Timmy's side. Lets his hand fall into the slight curve of his waist. 

Timmy opens his eyes just to roll them at Armie. "Yes, seriously. Teenage boys are stupid."

"And the girls?" Armie asks. He doesn't need the answer, the confirmation, but he wants it. 

Timmy exhales through his nose and reaches out to touch Armie's lips. They're slightly sore and Timmy's thumb feels huge. "They're a bit shy."

"Okay," Armie says. He rolls onto his back, but tries to keep his hand on Timmy until he absolutely can't. Turns off the lamp and then quickly rolls back. Scoots closer and nudges against Timmy until he falls to his back. He rests his head on Timmy's chest and wraps his arm around his waist. Declares, "You're spending the night."

"I'm spending the night," Timmy confirms. His fingers trace circles on Armie's elbow. 

The rise and fall of Timmy's diaphragm seems immense, so Armie asks, "Am I too heavy?"

Timmy laughs and Armie can hear his head shake against the pillow. Squeezes his waist for a moment to feel the vibrations of his chest. "You're not nearly as big as you think you are, Mr. Hammer." 

Armie pinches Timmy's side. "Nothing to do with being big. You're just a fucking noodle. Not even linguine, that skinny stuff." 

"Capellini," Timmy says. There's a moment of silence and Armie deosn't want to ask if that's the chick from _Laguna Beach._ Oh, God, Timmy probably doesn't even know what that show is. "Angel hair," Timmy explains, probably realizing that Armie can barely cook pasta let alone know more than the basic terms. 

They both laugh and Armie nods. Kisses just above Timmy's nipple and tries not to get lost in the imagined sound Timmy might make if he licked him an inch lower. If he bit, flicked. Soothed. "My angel hair noodle," he says. 

Later, Armie is half asleep when Timmy murmurs, "I really like you." Unsure if it's the start of a dream or the end of one, Armie just hums against Timmy's skin.


	9. Part One.

In the morning, Timmy makes breakfast. 

(Armie was in the shower when he heard the front door open, shut. Paused for a moment with his hands in his hair, shampoo suds tickling his fingertips. He worried Nick had come over, even though he has nothing to hide. When he left Timmy, he was playing a game on his phone, wrapped in the comforter. Maybe it would be good for Nick to meet Timmy that way; casual and comfortable. Settled into Armie's home, wearing one of Armie's old sweatshirts. 

When he stuck his head out of the shower, there was just silence and he thought maybe Timmy had gone back to his apartment. Maybe he didn't feel like saying goodbye. He thought a lot of different things that all started with "maybe," but was glad when he was rinsing off and heard the door open, shut. Glad when he dried off and slipped into sweatpants and smelled toast.)

He doesn't bother with a shirt. Instead, walks into the kitchen and finds two mugs of coffee. Mugs that don't belong to him and coffee that isn't instant--he can't see the film around the rim that always forms with instant coffee. Found Timmy standing over the stove, spatula in hand. 

Armie didn't even know he had eggs. Timmy doesn't look up, just says, "You should really get a coffee pot." 

He serves eggs and toast on two plates. Adds, "And, you should really get some bacon," before grabbing one of the mugs of coffee and walking to the living room. He sits cross-legged on the floor and sets his plate on the coffee table; Armie copies him and notices the sleeves of his sweatshirt are rolled up on Timmy's wrists. He wonders how many times the fabric is rolled: twice like how many times Armie woke up in the middle of the night, still wrapped in Timmy's arms; or three like the number of blinks before his vision cleared this morning and he locked eyes with Timmy. Said, "Morning," and received a kiss to his forehead. 

The eggs are good. "Your parents don't mind you stealing coffee and disappearing?" 

Timmy shrugs and smiles. "It's not like they don't know where I am." 

Armie swallows and tries not to ask his questions too fast. "They know you're here? Do they know we're--" he cuts himself off being he says what he wants them to be. 

Timmy folds his toast around a lump of egg. Takes a big bite. "They know where I am. They don't ask a lot of questions," he says while he chews. 

Armie has follow-up questions, but instead he drinks his coffee and pushes his eggs around the plate. They eat, the clink of forks on plates filling Armie's apartment, pushing between the space between them. 

"If they ask," Timmy says when he finishes his eggs, "What should I tell them?" 

"What?" Armie asks. He stares at his plate and wishes there was another bite of egg, a bit of toast, a sip of coffee. Something to shove in his mouth. 

"Should I tell them I'm at my friend's place or," he smirks and takes Armie's plate. Sets it on his own and puts both their forks on top. "Should I brave the inevitable safe sex talk and tell them I'm staying at my boyfriend's?"

Boyfriend. Armie smiles at the coffee table and lets his tongue trace over that word inside his mouth. Tells the warmth in his chest to simmer down, to go away until someone actually asks that question. Until Timmy answers. "Would they care that it's me? That's I'm older?" 

Timmy stands up and stretches his arms above his head. He grabs the plates and pads to the kitchen; Armie notices he's barefoot and the thought of him walking to his place like he never left home, stealing coffee, and then walking back makes Armie smile. "They don't care," Timmy says. 

"You mean they won't care," Armie pushes. 

Timmy turns around and rolls his eyes. "I mean they don't care." 

Armie nods and leans back against the couch. They don't care. 

_____

Timmy spends some nights at Armie's apartment. Some nights, he leaves before dinner. And the days Armie hates, Timmy doesn't come over. Just texts a picture of homework spread out over his bed (rarely on his desk), or his face framed by his comforter and a series of _z_ 's. 

Armie never directly asks him to come over. Never asks him to stay. Sometimes, will mute the television and look over at Timmy, who is curled up in the armchair reading whatever book he has a quiz on in the morning, and ask, "Will you need a ride to school?" or "Do you need coffee for the morning?" 

(Because he gets a new coffee pot. Nothing too fancy, but he can choose between a single cup and an entire carafe. He can program it at night to have coffee ready in the morning and, a few weeks after buying it, Timmy shows him there's a "bold" function. It's life changing, to say the least, and later, in bed, he brushed his nose against Timmy's jaw and said, "So excited to boldly go where--"

But Timmy slapped a hand over his mouth and told him to shut up. Laughed, but didn't remove his hand.)

But he never comes out and asks him because this is new. This is still fresh and they are _still_ taking it slow, even if Nick doesn't believe him. Even if Liz gives him a knowing look every now and then. He never comes out and says, "Please, I need you to come over, I need you to stay," even though sometimes, it feels like he should. 

Most nights--when Timmy stays--they sleep. Sometimes tucked together, other times a foot apart. As the weather changes, Armie's bedroom gets too warm and the space between them widens. Armie will wake up some nights and reach across the bed. Lace his fingers with Timmy's and grin when there's a sleepy but reassuring squeeze. 

But some night, they don't sleep. There are nights when Armie will say, "I _have_ to be up early," and try to be serious about it, try to get Timmy to listen, but nothing can be heard over Timmy's lips on his throat, his sternum, his cock. To be fair, Armie doesn't protest too much those nights. Is quick to return the favor. 

Other nights, Timmy will roll over and ask, "Hey, do you ever think about how weird it is that some people are left handed?" or admit, "I want to write a book that someone wants to read twice." And then, eventually, Armie will talk about how he wishes he was taking pictures of real people with actual stories instead of women trying to push a different narrative than the one they are living. And Timmy will admit he's scared to graduate. Terrified that everyone will realize that he was just talented for a high schooler. 

Eventually one of them will stop making sense and they will drift to sleep. Wake up groggy, but rested. 

Nights when Armie is alone in bed, he places a pillow parallel to his body. He doesn't always press back into it, but he likes knowing he can if he wants to. 

_____

"I think Nick and Liz are dating," Armie says one Saturday. It's a Saturday and it's warm enough for them to walk to the coffee shop on the corner. Armie holds a table outside while Timmy buys their drinks. Gets a scone for them to split. 

"Oh?" Timmy asks while he rips off part of the scone and brings it to his lips. "Are we okay with that?" 

He does that a lot. Says "we" instead of "you" or "me." Not as if they are one person, but as if they both need to be okay. 

Armie shrugs. "I wish they'd just tell me. I mean--" he rolls his eyes and twists his coffee back and forth on the table. He doesn't look up when he says, "They should have been together from the start, so," he shrugs. 

Timmy nods like he gets it, and maybe he does because he doesn't press for more. Armie hasn't told him everything, even though they share a toothbrush and deodorant some days. He has told him a lot, though. Told him how he thought Liz was a way he could fit in, a way for him to get by. How his mom was so happy and how he felt awful the entire time. Felt awful because he loved Liz. Loves Liz. Felt awful because he had been lying to Nick all the time.

(He'd told Timmy during a commercial break and Timmy had listened, nodded. Said, "You know, if you were that unhappy and they didn't realize, either you're a better actor than I am or they weren't paying attention." Kissed him and finished, "And maybe if they've moved on, it's okay for you to move on."

And Armie wanted to make a comment about Timmy being wiser than his own grandpa, but stopped himself. Instead pulled Timmy into his lap and held him close. Waited for the show to come back on.) 

Timmy opens his mouth like he's about to speak, about to say something that will probably make Armie wonder if he's _really_ a high schooler, when suddenly Timmy is looking behind him. Snapping his mouth shut. Smiling and sitting up straight. 

Armie doesn't want to look, but he can't stop. He glances over his shoulder and sees a thin girl. A girl he's seen at the apartment, a girl who has hugged Timmy and kissed his cheek. A girl who brushes by Armie's chair, steps over his splayed legs. Tousles Timmy's hair and hip checks his shoulder. Says, "Hey, Pony," before looking over at Armie. Winking, then looking back at Timmy. "Is this?" 

Timmy nods, "Yeah, yeah." He runs his hands down the front of his jeans, pushes his hair behind his ear. It's grown out a lot and he's been teasing a haircut for weeks. Whenever he does, Armie will tug on a curl and tell him not to be stupid. "Armie, this is my friend Saoirse." 

She makes a move before Armie can, and for a moment he just stares at her outstretched arm before taking her hand and shaking. It's firm, much firmer than he expected from one of Timmy's high school friends and, really, what _are_ they teaching high schoolers these days? "Nice to meet you," Armie says. He leans forward a bit, tucks his legs under his chair. Asks, "Should we grab another chair?" 

Timmy moves like he's about to stand, but Saoirse pushes him down with a light hand on his shoulder. "No, I'm just passing by. Thought I'd say hi since Timmy's been keeping you hidden." 

Armie doesn't feel hidden, hasn't felt hidden. Has felt like anytime he's in public with Timmy, there's a spotlight on their fingers laced together, a megaphone attached to both their lips. "I haven't--" Timmy starts, but Saoirse taps his shoulder. 

"I'm kidding, I get it. Anyways, Armie, are you coming next weekend? We can save you a spot." 

"Next weekend?" Armie looks away from Saoirse quickly enough to catch Timmy's face switch from embarrassed to appalled. Shift towards inscrutable. Not often, but often enough for Armie to stay up too late thinking about it on the nights Timmy is absent from his bed, there are these little moments. These gaps in their lives where Armie feels like he doesn't know Timmy at all. He knows his favorite color, that he can't sleep with the door open, and just how many pizza rolls he can eat before claiming to be full (but continuing to grab one off the plate every now and then.) He knows he likes to sleep facing the window, likes when Armie jerks him off while biting harsh marks against his thighs. 

But he can't know everything. 

Timmy grabs his coffee and brings it to his lips, says, "Armie has plans," before taking a sip. Licking his lower lip and letting the silence hang for a moment. 

Saoirse pulls her phone out. Checks the time and then squeezes Timmy's shoulder. "Right. I mean, of course," she backs up and pockets her phone again. "Let me know if you need a ride to school on Monday," she says to Timmy. To Armie, "Nice meeting you!"

And then she's gone and Timmy is relaxing into his chair while Armie's spine stiffens. His palms start to sweat and the backs of his knees itch. "She's nice," he says so he doesn't rush into the interrogation. 

"Yeah, we've been friends forever. You've probably seen her around the building." He doesn't look uncomfortable, so Armie isn't completely taken aback when Timmy says, "I invited her to the reading next weekend. I hope you don't mind. She's like my sister, so." 

Armie nods and switches gears. Doesn't want to be the boyfriend that gets jealous of the people who have surrounded Timmy for years. Knows he would be annoyed if Timmy felt that way about Nick. About Liz. "Why did she call you Pony?" 

Timmy laughs and nudges Armie's calf with his toe. "It's dumb. She says I always nuzzle people like a pony would."

Armie smiles. He knows exactly what Timmy is saying, the action he is referring to, but all along thought this was something Timmy just did to him. Always thought of it as a silent way to say, "I don't need to kiss you, I don't need to hold you, I just want you near me right now." A reminder that he's never an annoyance, never a problem in Armie's life. Always welcome. 

Which is still true, but apparently Timmy doesn't need the reassurance like Armie does.

Armie forces a laugh and admits, "In high school, they called me Yeti," and immediately feels dumb for saying it. "The height, and," he rolls his eyes and looks past Timmy. Tries to avoid the unwanted feeling of having to share Timmy's affection with others. 

"And all that chest hair," Timmy winks and leans forward. Reaches under the table to squeeze Armie's knee. Armie doesn't want to, but he pictures Timmy in a vague setting, nuzzling against Saoirse while she tells him how good his essay was. How good he is. 

_____

On Friday, they're at Liz's and Nick is drunk. 

(Armie didn't change his outfit three times. He didn't, because that would be crazy. He changed back into what he wore to work, but switched to flip flops at least.) 

"Have. You. Fucked. Him. Yet." Nick says instead of asking. From the kitchen, Armie hears Liz mutter, "Oh my God, Nick," followed by a light laugh. This should be weird. This should be terrible. One of them should be the odd man out, the one deemed problematic by the other two. It should be him. Nick was never the "Bros before Hoes" type anyways. It should be him, and Armie knows this. It's why he agreed to be here, why he changed his outfit, why he changed back, why he told Timmy he shouldn't come over tonight. 

Armie shakes his head and slouches into the couch. It's leather and he slides down further than expected; Liz's style is more polished than his. Had things gone differently, he'd probably have a recliner relegated to a den that would be brought up during almost all meaningless arguments. "We're taking it slow," Armie says. 

"Or," Nick holds up his beer and Armie wants to take it away. "You're not actually sure if he's legal." 

"Nick," Liz warns on the way back from the kitchen. She's in leggings and a sweatshirt. Ponytail still perfect. She swipes the beer from his hand and replaces it with a bottle of water. "Shut up." 

"Well," Nick wavers. He doesn't seem to notice his beer has been replaced. "I'm just saying it's a bit weird that _Armie_ is taking it this slow."

It doesn't seem slow at all, not to Armie. And he wants to defend himself, wants to say, "I was in a relationship with someone for _years_ , I think I can move at whatever pace I want. I don't need to be judged for what I did in high school or college, I don't." 

More than that, he wants this conversation over. Is thankful when Liz sits next to him, pats his knee. "Well, I think it's nice. And you should've brought him tonight." 

"Yeah, _that_ wouldn't be weird at all," Nick says. He takes a drink of the water. Furrows his brow and asks, "What happened to my beer?" 

Liz ignores him and says, "I think if he makes you happy then--" she shrugs and brings Nick's beer to her lips. Swallows and finishes, "--then you should just stay on that path. Anyways, just know that he's always welcome to join us." 

The thought of that feels like oil and water. Armie nods and finishes his beer. "Nick, I'm leaving in ten." 

There's a sobering moment when Nick looks at Liz and she nods. "I think I'm staying here, if that's okay," he says. Like he needs to confirm it with Armie, like he wants to confirm it with Armie. Like he should. 

Armie turns to Liz, asks, "You're okay cleaning up his puke in the morning?"

She laughs and shoves his shoulder. "He can clean up his own puke in the morning." 

When he leaves, part of him thinks about what it would feel like to leave with Timmy. To unlock the car while Timmy says something like, "They're really cute," or "We should have them over for dinner next week." 

_____

Timmy is radio silent on Saturday, and by the afternoon, he's fallen into a comfortable solitude. So comfortable, that he jars when he closes his mailbox and Nicole calls out, "Armie!" He looks up before tossing some fliers in the recycling. Smiles, but takes a small step backwards. There are no doors behind him, only corners. 

"Nicole, hi," he says. 

"I never got a chance to thank you for those head shots. You are really talented," she adds, taking a step closer. Her keys are in hand and Armie feels less ambushed. She's here to get her mail, just like him. Not to pry. 

"Well, Timmy made it pretty easy." 

She rolls her eyes and pats his elbow. Walks by him and finds her mailbox. "I hope he's not bothering you too much," she says, pulling out some envelopes. A few fliers identical to the ones Armie just tossed. She closes the mailbox and turns around, folds the mail in half and tucks it under her arm. "This whole photography kick he's on lately," she sighs, "it came out of nowhere, but I appreciate you humoring him." 

Armie nods, even though he's not aware of any "photography kick." 

"I think," she chuckles and presses a finger to his lips. "Oh, he'd kill me if I said this. I think he's developing a bit of a crush on you, but you know how kids are at that age. I was convinced I was going to marry one of my dance instructors when I was his age." 

Armie laughs, asks, "You don't mind him being away so much?" He assumes he knows the answer already, but he's waits for the delivery. Is ready to run. 

She shakes her head. "Oh, no. But, feel free to send him home anytime. He seems to be pretty comfortable living on your couch at the moment." 

He nods and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Changes the subject. "Has he left for his reading tonight?"

Nicole nods. "Just left, actually. He's been so secretive about the whole thing. At conferences, his English teacher told us he should think about minoring in writing if he's still so set on focusing on theater. I wouldn't know; I'm just his mom, so of course he doesn't share any of that with me. Has he shown you anything?" Armie shakes his head and takes a few steps towards the door. "Well, that makes me feel a bit better. You haven't completely replaced me." 

Armie has questions, but they aren't for Nicole. "Never," he assures her. "I'm sorry, but I really have to get going," he lies and makes a quick exit. Instead of spotlights and megaphones, feels as though he's followed by curtains. 

_____

nick: _we're getting tacos then going to the movies_  
nick: _join us_  
nick: _bring the boy_

Armie: _Can't. Busy._

He's about to bury his phone in his sock drawer or throw it out the window. Worries that Nick will take his trite responses as a sure reason to be worried. As a reason to come over.

Armie: _Have fun, though. I'll see you two Monday!_

The exclamation is supposed to be a barrier, a clear sign that everyone should stay away.

He tosses his phone on the counter with the unopened mail and goes to the living room. 

They'd had plans, though not in cement, for Timmy to come over afterwards. Something Armie mentioned in passing, something Timmy never agreed to. But, he'd bought beer and even a bottle of wine. The chips Timmy likes. He's sure Timmy will have some complaint about the wine and will get crumbs all over the couch. Armie almost hopes Timmy doesn't come over, though. Doesn't come over before Armie's has time to process this. 

But he starts watching re-runs of _Friends_ because it's on, because it's mindless, and before he realizes it, the sun has basically set and he needs to turn on a lamp. Should probably eat; he has a few frozen pizzas in the fridge. Better yet, he could go out for food. Have a reason not to answer the door when Timmy comes over. 

Armie goes to the kitchen and grabs his keys. Puts his phone in his pocket without checking it. 

As he walks out of the apartment, he keeps his head down and prays that he doesn't cross paths with Timmy.

____

Armie is pretty sure he's overstayed his welcome at Taco Bell. He's on his third refill (and second order of cinnamon twists) when he dares looking at his phone. 

nick: _buuuusy?_  
nick: _slowpoke playing catch-up?_

Armie rolls his eyes. Bites a cinnamon twist in half. 

timmy: _phew i didn't die_  
timmy: _on my way_  
timmy: _:)_

It was sent a half hour ago. Armie takes another bite and tries not to think about Timmy waiting for him. Tries not to think about Timmy knocking on his door, rocking back on the balls of his feet. Probably humming, or just trying the doorknob. Hoping to let himself in and make himself at home in Armie's apartment. To kiss Armie's neck, wrap his arms around his waist. Hold him close without squeezing, without suffocating him. Without being too much, even though he's everything. 

Armie throws his wrapper on the tray and stands up. He can't live at Taco Bell. 

____

Timmy is cross-legged in front of Armie's door. Fiddling with a hole in the knee of his jeans. His phone balances on the other knee. He doesn't look up, but Armie is sure he can hear him. It's a long walk down the hall and Armie notices that three of the hallway lights need to be replaced. That there's a fresh coffee spill staining one of the walls. Notices that Timmy has waited. Has waited for almost an hour instead of hiding. Instead of eating two tacos he wasn't hungry for and making small talk with a high schooler in an ill-fitting uniform. 

Armie jingles his keys, but Timmy doesn't look up. Waits for Armie to be within reach before standing up and moving aside. Gesturing to the door without speaking, insinuating whatever needs to be said can wait for closed doors. 

He should have stayed. He should have been the one to wait. 

Armie lets Timmy in and locks the door behind them. Says, "I'm sorry." 

"It's fine," Timmy says. He takes his shoes off and lines them up next to the door. He folds his arms and stands in the entryway like he's waiting for directions. Like he doesn't treat this as his second home, like he doesn't know he's welcome to settle into every crevice and corner. 

Armie throws his keys on the counter and runs a hand through his hair. Too many questions have been pushed aside, so he asks, "Why does your mom think you're sleeping on my couch?" He wants an answers, but he doesn't want to give Timmy time to think. He wants answers, plural. "What is this photography kick you're on? Why is she _warning me_ that you might be developing some little crush on me? And this essay. It's clearly something you're trying to keep from me and--"

"It's about you," Timmy cuts him off, and the admission makes Armie's stomach sink, then float. Flutter. He blushes and his throat goes dry, the questions drying up and leaving a bad taste on his tongue. "It's about you and I was worried you'd tease me. Or think less of me or," he looks up from where he's been focusing on the floor and his eyes look too big, like he's forcing himself to take everything in. "Just think I'm some dumb kid." 

"I have never treated you like a dumb kid," Armie says. "I have never treated you like a kid, not even when." He stops his sentence. Closes his mouth and tries to take a different direction, but Timmy is quick. Much quicker; Armie should be used to this by now. 

"Not even when? Before my birthday? Was that when I was a dumb kid?"

Armie doesn't answer. Kicks off his shoes and leaves them in the middle of the entryway. Walks to the living room and sits down; the television is still on and Chandler and Monica proposing to one another. He grabs the remote and mutes it, but still lets his eyes watch the movement on screen. "Just come sit down," Armie says because Timmy is still in the entryway. 

He doesn't move right away, but when he does, he kneels in front of Armie. Puts his hands on Armie's knees and looks up at him. "Do you want me to be here?" Armie nods, but he doesn't look at him, not yet. "I didn't tell my parents because I was worried they wouldn't let me come over here anymore. Not because of the age thing, but because they think I need to focus on school more. That I should be planning my future and putting everything down in cement and I'm not ready for that." 

Armie nods. Dares a glance at Timmy and asks the only question he really needs answered. "Am I stopping you from all of that?" 

_Am I stopping you from being a high schooler? From planning your future properly? From having a normal life?_

Timmy shakes his head and pushes forward. "Not at all. I love every minute I'm with you." It sounds like the truth, but more than that, it feels like it when he leans down to meet Timmy halfway. To kiss him and open himself up to Timmy. Lets him climb up into his lap, lets Timmy bite at his lips and his neck until he feels raw. Open, but not exposed. 

Later--

(Much later. So much later than either want, because Armie eventually put a hand on Timmy's chest and pushed him back. Reached between them to adjust his cock and take a breath. Said, "You need to tell me how tonight went." 

And Timmy laughed and sat back on Armie's thighs. Told him how there weren't a ton of people, but he still got nervous. How Saoirse cheered too loudly and he skipped a page accidentally and had to apologize and backtrack. How it was hard to talk about Armie in public like that, how it was exciting. How, for the first time, it felt like he was part of something solid.

Much later because Timmy's stomach growled and Armie insisted on making him nachos. Because they had beer to drink and wine to make fun of. "This shouldn't even be used for cooking," Timmy said, but he drank it anyway until his teeth were stained. Because Timmy'd never seen "The One with Phoebe's Cookies." 

Much, much, too much later because Timmy said "Hey," and kissed Armie's cheek. Bit his shoulder and said, "I'm sorry, too," and it felt weird to rush.)

\--Armie is worried they are moving too fast, but Timmy spreads his legs bends his knees. Nods frantically. Asks, "Do you have a condom? I mean, I'm--"

And Armie snorts, says, "Yeah, I have a condom. But are you--"

Timmy sits up. Props himself on one elbow while his other hand trails down his chest, his belly. Bypasses his cock and presses his middle finger, dry, inside himself. Just the tip, but Armie sucks in a breath of air and looks away. He's never done that, not to himself, not to anyone. It feels private, like Timmy has pushed back the curtain to show him. "Are you? We don't have to, Armie." 

Armie shakes his head and reaches over to the bedside table. "I want to, I've just never," he blushes. Rummages around until he finds a condom. The unopened bottle of lube he bought months ago. He sits back, between Timmy's spread thighs, and is glad to see Timmy's hand has moved. That he's, instead, stroking his cock. 

"Never? Seem pretty experienced to me," Timmy jokes. Hisses when Armie leans down to swipe his tongue across the head of Timmy's cock. 

He sits up straight and struggles with the plastic wrap on the bottle's cap. Feels like an idiot--young and childish and completely stupid--but blurts out, "I've never had sex with a guy." 

Timmy sits up and takes the lube from him. Uses his teeth to tear the wrapper off and hands it back. Teases, "Well, it's a lot like having sex with a woman, except _you_ might actually enjoy it."

Armie almost regrets telling Timmy all his secrets, if only because it gives him more ammunition for jokes. Jokes he wouldn't want anyone else to make, but because it's Timmy, it's okay. "You're such an ass," Armie whispers as he flicks open the cap. Pours a small amount on his fingers before leaning down and kissing Timmy. Moving his hand between them, fumbling along the way until he's pressing against Timmy's hole. Until he feels the muscle flutter against the pad of his middle finger. 

"You love it," Timmy hisses, gasps as Armie presses his finger inside. Just the tip, surprised at how easily it sinks inside. How Timmy's body accepts him.

"I love it," Armie confirms before burying his face in the crook of Timmy's neck. Before pressing his finger in the rest of the way and squeezing his eyes shut. Before admitting to himself, _I love it, I love this, I love everything. I love you._

**End of Part One.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, i lied. the essay isn't completely revealed in this chapter because i had to save it for part two. sorry.


	10. Part Two.

The first time, Timmy takes advantage of moving day and gym shorts and a roommate who isn't moving in until the following afternoon. 

(Timmy waited until after graduation to tell his parents that maybe, possibly, he hadn't been just sleeping on Armie's couch. It made for an awkward summer spent ducking in and out of the apartment and the knowledge that Timmy used the, "I'm eighteen; you can't tell me not to sleep over at my boyfriend's place," argument. The knowledge that _Armie_ was the one who said, "Timmy, when they stop paying your cell phone bill and you stop drinking all their juice, you can quit following their rules." 

Which, if Nicole had ever found out about that entire discussion, would have won Armie a lot of brownie points, but he wasn't looking for points. He wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for, but he definitely was not looking for excuses. Not looking to erase the fact that while what they were doing wasn't _illegal_ , that what the were doing wasn't well past being consensual, it wasn't exactly something to brag about. Something a parent should feel okay with. 

Hell, Armie hasn't even told his own mother. Definitely not his father. There's a good chance he never will.

Anyways, he told them after graduation but it isn't until Armie does most of the heavy lifting on moving day that Timmy's parents seem even remotely okay with the entire situation. Timmy owns a lot of shit.)

"We could push the beds together," Armie says. He tries to sit back, but Timmy's fingers fist in his t-shirt and pull him back down. "Or not," he gets out before Timmy's mouth is on his, tongue slipping into Armie's mouth, effectively silencing him for a bit. His fingers hold tight onto the worn fabric of Armie's shirt while his free hand moves to the small of Armie's back. Pressing down just enough to remind Armie that Timmy is solid, strong. That he can take the weight, that he loves the feeling of Armie pushing him that much deeper into the mattress. 

That maybe he wants to be held down and kept in place, not just in an extra long twin size bed or on Armie's couch, but everywhere. When he has to say, "Thank you, that's sweet, but I have a boyfriend," to the girl at his orientation or, "No, he's with me," when Armie was stopped entering the high school to help Timmy clean out his locker. On a summer night when they're silently watching a rerun of _Mike and Molly_ , both pissed off because Armie refused to go to a house party where he would be a decade older than everyone. Held down and kept in place by a firm hand under the table when Liz and Nick come over for pizza and beer one night and Timmy is bored out of his mind listening to them talk about possibly moving into a new studio closer to downtown. 

Armie lets his arms give way. Feels their bodies inch down into the same mattress that Timmy bounced on hours earlier and said, "Well, at least there's a good chiropractor nearby," with much more cheer in his voice than needed. But he doesn't feel like he's sinking. Doesn't feel like _they_ are sinking, so he slides his tongue against Timmy's. Pulls back to pepper chaste kisses along Timmy's upper lip. Rolls his eyes at the way Timmy refuses to close his mouth, the way Timmy leaves no guess work when it comes to what he wants. 

(More. He always wants more.) 

He doesn't give in, just moves away from Timmy's mouth. Kisses his jaw, his neck, into the the curls that have grown longer and longer. Distracts himself in the smell of sweat that's dried just behind Timmy's ear, distracts himself while Timmy's hand moves from the small of Armie's back to dip--just fingertips, always just fingertips--under the elastic of Armie's shorts. Breathes in deep and presses a hard kiss to Timmy's collarbone once fingertips become fingers, become a palm sliding down under gym shorts, under boxers and cupping the curve of Armie's ass. 

He bites down on Timmy's shirt when finally, Timmy licks his lips and closes his mouth, only to open it against Armie's ear. Asks, "Can I eat you out?" And it doesn't sound as harsh as Armie imagined it might, but he still shakes his head. Still closes his eyes tight. Timmy backs up, changes directions, but doesn't map a new route. "Can I touch you at least?" 

Armie quips, voice distorted by his teeth's grip on Timmy's collar, "I don't know, _can you_ , college boy?" which earns him a slight slap to his ass cheek. Followed by a squeeze and Timmy's finger tracing the cleft of his ass. 

"Fine; may I touch you, Jerk?"

Armie nods and lets go of Timmy's shirt. Buries his face in Timmy's neck and kisses whatever skin he can find. Tries to hide the blush of his cheeks when Timmy's middle finger presses against his opening, just settles against him. Easy. Notices that Timmy's fingers are no longer clinging to his own shirt. Can't fully register what Timmy's movements mean until his middle finger moves so he can pull Armie's short down. Hold them just below his ass, the press of their hips stalling an easy removal. 

And then there's his other hand, finger slick with spit, circling Armie's hole once, twice, before pressing inside and--

(They've talked about this, they've talked about this many times and Armie always has to look away. Has to say, "No, I want to, I just--"

While Timmy assures him, "No, it's cool. Some guys don't like it and that's--"

"No, I'm not saying that, I just." And it's a foreign concept--truly out of this world--for Armie to open his mouth and not have words ready to spill out. To have thoughts in his head--

_I want to. I really want to. I think about it a lot and I've fingered myself thinking about you. I almost bought a dildo the other night but I don't want a piece of plastic, I want you, I just don't know what I'm doing and I feel stupid even though I know I don't need to feel stupid with you._

\--but a lock on his lips that won't let the words out. 

They've talked about it and Armie knows he doesn't have to, but he wants to. God, he wants to.)

\--Armie is glad Timmy speaks, glad his whispered, "Fuck, even tighter than I thought you'd be," blocks out whatever-the-fuck noise escapes Armie's mouth because he's not even sure how he _made_ the noise, let alone what it actually sounds like. Glad Timmy doesn't stop, that his normal bedroom "talk" of heavy breathing, grunts, and sarcastic comments is pointedly verbalized now. Glad he says, "Feels so good, want to open you up for my cock," without hesitation, without grinding up against Armie. So fucking glad his breath doesn't even have a chance to catch in his throat like a drain stopper before Timmy assures him, "Not tonight, not tonight, we can wait, Baby." 

Doesn't have a chance to formulate a sarcastic response to being called, "Baby" before Timmy's fingers are gone, pressing against Armie's shoulder. Pushing him away while he says, "Fuck, I can't remember where I put the lube."

Armie rolls to the side. Watches Timmy hop off the bed and start rummaging through open boxes. Tossing aside books and journals, shoes, socks. A framed picture of him and his sister, a soccer ball, one of Armie's sweaters. 

Not sure what to do with his hands, what to do with himself, Armie pushes his shorts off and kicks them to the end of the bed. Isn't entirely shocked that his cock is hard, that he wants to reach back and fill the emptiness left by Timmy's absence. Wants to do so much--

(Wants to spread his legs, bend his knees. Touch himself like Timmy did that first time, let him see how much he wants this, how much he wants Timmy. Can't, just can't, he can't.)

\--but instead fists his cock and says, "I think it's in the box labeled 'maternity joggers and sex toys.'"

Timmy makes a victorious noise and stands up, holding a familiar tube of lube. "Ha, funny, fuck you." 

"Not tonight," Armie reminds as Timmy flops on his side next to him. 

"Not tonight," Timmy agrees, and then he's kissing Armie again, replacing Armie's hand with his own. Replacing Armie's firm, determined strokes with a softer touch. A touch that says, "We don't have anywhere we need to be." 

And they don't. So Armie lets Timmy kiss him, lets him tease his cock and tries not to think about how weird it feels to be half naked but completely bared while Timmy is still dressed. How weird it sounds to have Timmy pull back and whisper compliments, say, "Love how you feel in my hand, it's dumb how much I think about your cock, you realize that, right? Fuck, you're all I think about most days," while Armie stays silent. Closes his eyes and doesn't try to think. Just tries to be there. 

Tries to be there (there, here, cramped on this extra long twin size mattress that creeks and smells like dust, both of them on their sides, face to face) until minutes and steps have elapsed and they've officially arrived and this time-- _thank God_ Armie thinks--he doesn't make any strange noises, doesn't care that Timmy's gone silent as he presses two fingers inside Armie. Pulls them out, the drag slick enough that Armie's mental resistance momentarily lapses, enough so that he presses back against the fingers. Chases them until Timmy grins against his lips, asks, "Like that? What another?" which makes Armie push away, fuck into Timmy's hand. Bites his lip when Timmy encourages, "Take what you need." 

Armie presses back onto Timmy's fingers. Stills and this time, he's the one opening his mouth, begging for more. And Timmy gives it to him, takes the hint and starts to slowly finger him, starts to jerk him off in time with the thrusts of his fingers. Moves to an aching crawl every now and then to rub the pad of his thumb back and forth over Armie's stretched rim, and Armie is lost, searching, tipping his chin closer to Timmy who kisses his upper lip. Chuckles when Armie presses for more, lets him initiate a lazy roll of tongues and a exchange of breath. Lets him until Timmy speeds up, nips at Armie's nose and says, "Not giving you more, want you to come like this." 

It's too much, feeling _and_ hearing Timmy everywhere, and Armie isn't sure if he should cover Timmy's hand with one of his own, give himself a moment's reprieve. Cover Timmy's mouth, just for a second, for a breather. 

He settles for holding on to Timmy's collar. Twisting it until the fabric is tight against his skin, turning the tips of his fingers white cold, until he can't help but rock back and forth with Timmy, can't help but suck in air over and over until his throat is dry and he's letting it all out, coming between them and immediately wanting to apologize for getting Timmy's shirt dirty, for not being present enough to warn him, to push him away--

(Even though he doubts he would have succeeded, doubts Timmy would have let himself be pushed. And Armie wonders if Timmy would have pushed back, shoved him into the mattress and forced him to beg to come, forced him to say it out loud, to say how much he wants this, wants Timmy. Force him to say, "You're all I think about, too.") 

\--to act like an adult. 

Timmy jerks him through it, but presses his fingers in all the way. Presses hard until Armie is shaking his head, unable to tell him it's too much, but it's too much, he's too much. 

"So good," Timmy whispers. Kisses Armie's eyelids and then he's gone. Sliding off and out of him, wiping his fingers on his shirt. Wiping his palm on his shorts and pressing another kiss to Armie's lips. "Should we try out the dining hall?"

Armie doesn't answer, but he nods. Lets Timmy roll him onto his back, drape himself over Armie. Mentions something about needing to shower first.

Armie nods again. Wraps an arm around Timmy. 

_____

It's not hard, but it's not easy. Timmy starts classes and he's busy, he's involved. The drive to campus is long and Timmy has a roommate. It doesn't make sense to drive all the way to pick Timmy up when, the entire time they're at Armie's, they're trying to figure out when they need to leave to get Timmy back to the dorms so he can go to bed and be a functioning student for his class at eight in the morning. 

Not to mention the guilt. The guilt of sneaking Timmy in past his parents' apartment. The guilt of sneaking around _again_.

But it could be worse, so they deal. They deal with long drives and infrequent dates. With less sex and having to figure out the joys of technology. Rearranging schedules and realizing that what they were lucky enough to have before was an actual blessing. 

It's not hard, but it's not easy and it helps that Timmy's roommate has a night class on Thursdays. That they can have the room to themselves for a bit, not worry about rushing. At first, they're all hands and mouths, bodies and tongues the moment he leaves for class. Eventually, things slow down. They watch television or Timmy does homework while Armie eats Doritos and plays video games. 

It's not easy, but Armie loves it. 

_____

It's been cold--not brisk, but cold--for weeks when Nick asks, "So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?" 

Armie doesn't know. He hasn't talked to his mother since he called and told her she would be getting a deposit refund for the rehearsal dinner. That, no, they weren't postponing the wedding. The wedding wasn't happening. _No, I'm not repeating that, Mom, because you heard me the first time, okay?_

Armie shrugs and checks his e-mail. He's been waiting to hear from one of the coffee shops about possibly displaying a few of his pictures there. Turns out, when he's not miserable with his life and feeling destined to have a future of all these beautiful things that he just doesn't want, Armie is able to take pictures of people and places and things that aren't in a studio. That aren't playing make believe. 

(It also helps that Timmy is away. Or, not away, but not always _there_ , not always accessible. He doesn't tell Timmy this, but he knows it wouldn't bother him, either. Knows the space is good.)

"Not sure," Armie says. 

Nick nods and leans against the brick wall. Checks his watch. The client is taking forever in makeup. It was supposed to be "just ten minutes" almost a half hour ago. "Well, you're welcome to come with us. We're going to my parents' place. They haven't seen you in forever and--"

"No, no, no," Armie laughs and pulls his camera to his face. Zooms in on Nick's nose. "I'm not showing up at your first Thanksgiving together. This is weird on so many levels, we don't need to make it into an episode of _Maury_ or something."

Nick grins and Armie can only see the lines scrunching around his nose. "Why, are you telling me you might be the father?" 

The camera drops and Armie's mouth gapes. 

"Kidding! Kidding. Jesus Christ, I think you'll get Timmy knocked up before Liz is even open to _talking_ about having a family."

Armie zooms back in on Nick. This time, his left eye. "We'd need a surrogate. He doesn't have the hips for it." 

They both straighten as the clack of heels echoes through the room. As Liz walks in and says, "Seriously, you two just lounge around all fucking day," under her breath. 

"We were waiting for--" Nick starts to protest, but Armie smacks his chest. Silences him from starting an argument he won't win. 

____

The second time is quick. They're supposed to be meeting up with Timmy's parents for dinner; Armie offered to pick Timmy up. It'd been a week and a half since they'd seen one another, and Armie isn't completely shocked when Timmy texts him, "Come up for a second." Expects him to yank him in the room, shove Armie against the door once it's closed, and drop to his knees. To make quick work of Armie's pants and boxers and easily suck his cock into his mouth.

"Timmy, Jesus, I'm in a tow zone--" Armie protests, even though he has his hazards on and traffic is light right now. He's not getting towed. 

He's expecting it, was probably hoping for it. But what he isn't expecting is Timmy to pull off just as Armie is about to come. To replace Armie's cock with his own finger, quickly coating it with spit before moving his mouth back to Armie's cock, probing his finger back behind Armie's balls. Not hesitating, just pressing inside Armie. One finger, hard, forcing Armie's back to arch away from the door, forcing his cock too far into Timmy's mouth so he feels him gag, feels spit pooling in Timmy's mouth, dribbling down his chin. One finger is all he needs and Armie clenches around the digit. Comes in Timmy's mouth. Laughs when Timmy pulls back, swallows and rolls his eyes. Jokingly scolds, "You're so messy," before standing up and looking for a box of tissues to clean his face off. 

They still make it to dinner early. Are waiting outside on a bench when Timmy leans his chin on Armie's shoulder. Asks, "Can I spend the night on Friday?" 

Armie nods. "Of course," he says, thinking that's it. 

Timmy grins and it covers his whole face. "Good, because I want to know what it feels like when you come just from my cock," he whispers before standing up. Waving at his parents as they approach, hand in hand. 

At dinner, Timmy gets a _thought_ , which is one of his quirks that Armie loves. When he'll remember something, a tidbit from his day that has no relation to anything going on in the moment, and be bursting with the need to blurt it out. Too polite to just cut in. Finally, after Nicole has finished talking, Timmy turns to Armie. Says, "Remind me to tell you about this photography book my professor lent me. I think you'd like it." 

_____

Friday morning, Armie stops for coffee. Gets something sweet, something that sticks to his tongue; when he gets to work, Liz and Nick are laughing. They don't stop when Armie walks in; just greet him before sinking back into their conversation. They don't ignore him, and Nick even moves a bit to the side to make room for Armie to gather around the front desk. 

He doesn't join. Checks his watch and walks into the studio. 

_____

Nothing feels like a first anymore for Armie, even when it is. With Timmy, things feel like a continuation. A sequel. Sometimes, their relationship feels like a panorama and other times like the camera is stuck in burst mode. But nothing feels like a first. 

But in the back of his head, he knows this is a first. And it isn't a first he has been necessarily waiting for, but a first he never thought would happen. Or, if it happened, he assumed it would be with someone else. Someone different who wouldn't kiss the apple of his cheek or let him be the little spoon. Let him take control whenever he needs to. Assumed it would be a one night thing, not with someone who could take and give everything. 

He tries not to think about it too much. Does his job and tells the client how good they look. Gives easy compliments like, "Are you _sure_ you've never done this before?" 

Click. 

_____

At noon, he takes his watch off and brings it to his car. Hides it in the glove box and makes sure to lock his doors. 

_____

Armie picks Timmy up after his writing club meeting; they stop for dinner and Armie makes a conscious effort not to let his knee bounce under the table. Armie orders dessert to go. Cheesecake. When they get to the apartment, Armie takes his watch out of the glove box and tries to avoid Timmy's smirk. "Why was your--"

Armie steps out of the car; holds the cheesecake to his chest and says, "None of your business," before leading him to the apartment. 

He puts the cheesecake in the fridge and turns around to see Timmy has made himself at home. Spread out on the couch, legs crossed at his ankles. Remote in hand, flipping through the channels until he settles on an episode of _The Office._ Timmy has seen them all and is determined for Armie to do the same. 

"What are you doing?" Timmy asks when Armie tries to sit in the chair. He holds his arm up, showing the space between his body and the back of the couch. "I had a long day; I need snuggles." 

Armie rolls his eyes, but he maneuvers his way between Timmy and the couch. It's not comfortable, but it's comforting. He lets his body settle. Lets Timmy squeeze his shoulder and rest his chin on the top of Armie's head. 

The episodes aren't in order like usual "Must be like a best of Meredith marathon or something like that," Timmy notes. He doesn't complain when Armie asks questions. Tries to fill in the gaps. 

By episode three, Armie sits up. He undoes his watch and tosses it on the coffee table before settling back into the couch. This time, he drapes his leg over Timmy's and rests his head on Timmy's chest. Smirks, blushes when Timmy's hand settles on Armie's ass. Squeezes. They lay like this for a while, Timmy's hand moving to the small of Armie's back. Dipping down to trace Armie's hip. Pushing back up, taking his shirt up a few inches to press his fingertips into Armie's skin. 

Every time Timmy's hand moves, Armie holds his breath. Visualizes the movements in his head and prays for a destination that is always too far from where Timmy's touch settles. 

Eventually, Timmy says, "I have to pee," and they are a mess of limbs and grunts as he crawls out from under Armie. Disappears into the bedroom. Armie takes the time to sit up, stretch. He traces his fingers along the couch and smiles. He loves this couch, loves Timmy on this couch. 

There's the flush of a toilet and Timmy calls out, "I think I'm going to bed, if that's okay!" 

Armie nods at the empty room. Does his normal walk through the apartment, turning off the television, the lights. Checking that the door is locked. Timmy's backpack is by the front door, partially unzipped. The corner of his laptop sticks out, the frayed edges of a book. Armie is always telling him he shouldn't be so careless with his shit. 

By the time Armie takes his turn in the bathroom--

(he brushes his teeth and licks his wrist. Sniffs; a trick his mom taught him and he's not entirely sure it works, but it eases his mind. Combs his hair back from his face and strips down to his boxers. Bites his lip when he looks in the mirror and eyes the shower. It wouldn't hurt anything but his ego. 

Would it make this any easier? Would it make his heart stop racing?

Probably not. He wets a washcloth and wipes it over his chest, his armpits. Pushes his boxers away to quickly wipe his himself down. Throws the washcloth in the hamper and pulls his boxers up; his skin feels clammy, but clean. He reapplies deodorant.)

\--Timmy is curled into a pillow, eyes closed. Breath steady. Shirt off. Clothes off?

_Fuck_ , Armie thinks. He climbs into bed. Buries his face in his own pillow and murmurs, "Night," though he's sure Timmy is asleep. The guy can sleep anywhere. It's alarming. He knows he's not going to fall asleep anytime soon, not with his cock partially awake, pressing hard into the mattress. Not with the anticipation still fluttering through his body. Not with--

"Seriously, you're giving up that easily?" Timmy huffs throws back the covers. Flings a leg over the backs of Armie's thighs and sits down. Grabs Armie's ass with two hands and says, "I was going to make you beg for it, but I guess you have more willpower than I do." Armie can feel Timmy's cock poking into the lower curve of his ass. Definitely clothes off. Timmy's hands move to Armie's sides and he leans down, kisses Armie's cheek. Asks, "You still want to, right?" 

For a moment, everything stops except the puffs of Timmy's steady breaths against his skin. Then, "Yeah, I want to," and Timmy is pulling Armie's boxers down, pushing his thighs apart and settling between them. Using his thumbs to spread Armie apart, to make room for his mouth, his tongue, to make room for Armie's leg to jerk in shock, in wonder. "Jesus Christ, Timmy, I--" Armie says, wanting to push his thighs together, wanting to spread them further. Wanting to apologize, to beg. 

Timmy shushes him. Presses his thumb inside Armie and licks around it. "You're okay," Timmy says. It sounds partially like a question, so Armie nods and breathes out. 

Relaxes and lets himself just exist. 

Afterwards, Timmy stays inside Armie. Not for long, but long enough to catch his breath, to laugh. Says, "I love you, Armie," like he doesn't have to think about it. Doesn't need a response, just wants the words in the air, wants the words tucked in Armie's ears, in the back of his mind for days to come. 

Armie waits until Timmy is padding back from the bathroom. Tossing a hand towel at Armie and scratching his own belly. Waits until he's cleaned himself off and thrown the towel near the bathroom, until the lights are off and he's wrapped his arms around Timmy, pulling him has close as he can. Waits until Timmy's breath is completely even, until everything is steady before he says, "I love you, too." 

_____

Armie lets Timmy sleep in. He knows Timmy's roommate is an early riser (and very loud), so he tucks the blankets around his body and goes to make coffee. Makes a carafe and debates starting eggs. He'll wait until he hears Timmy stir. Eats a banana that he'd forgotten about; it's brown and he picks off some of the worst chunks and tosses them in the garbage. 

He turns on the television and finds the local news; turns the volume down low and drinks his coffee. Is about to start scrolling through his phone when he remembers Timmy bursting at the seams to tell him about the photography book. Armie walks to the door and grabs Timmy's bag. Unzips it further and reaches inside. His fingers feel two books and he grabs them; pulls them out and sets the bag back down. 

He recognizes one of the books; it's a photography book he used back in college. An updated version, of course, and he's actually excited to look through it. See if he remembers everything, to see what Timmy found interesting about it. 

He shuffles the other book to the front and furrows his brow. Smiles. _West 10th: Incoming Freshman Literature._ It's thick, bound together with a plastic spine. Each copy probably had to be done individually using one of those machines Armie always got mad at when he was forced to use them. 

He takes the books back to the couch and spreads out. Crosses his legs at the ankles and puts the photography book on the coffee table before flipping to the index of the other book. Skimming through titles once, twice, before actually taking a moment to read them. To recognize a familiar name. When he finds it, he grins. 

__

_You'll Shoot Your Eye Out-Timothée Chalamet (Page 86)_

Armie rolls his eyes. Vaguely remembers Timmy talking about _A Christmas Story_ weeks after their first kiss. Bringing it up randomly, like the thought of it was just loitering in his mind. He assumes that it wasn't just there by chance, that Timmy's essay, "What I did this Winter" or whatever it was called, was the first iteration of what's in this book.

Armie turns to page eighty-six and reads. 

Reads until his throat is dry and his eyes ache from tripping over words. From backtracking and shaking his head. Having to refocus. Reads until the end, then back to the beginning. Until he's pacing back and forth, his palms shaking and his cheeks and chest warm. Overheating. Until the bedroom door creaks open and Timmy yawns, stops. 

"Armie what are you--" Timmy starts, but he cuts himself off when Armie looks up. When they lock eyes and Armie, all at once, wants to hide and wants Timmy to see his face. Wants him to understand. 

It's only a few seconds, moments, but the silence aches. Armie doesn't want to break it, knows the moment he says anything, that everything will be broken. It already is, but it will be a final indication. He licks his lips and blinks. Regrets it immediately because he can feel the moisture clinging to the corners of his eyes. 

When he looks down at the book, his eye gravitate to a phrase that must have been etched into the back of his mind the first time he read it, each repetition carving it in deeper and harder. He reads Timmy's words out loud. "'Once I got him, it was easy. To be honest, it was almost too easy, as if his desperation was the key to unlock every single one of my teenage desires.'"

The words hurt his throat and he looks back at Timmy. "Armie, I can explain. It--"

"You need to go," Armie whispers. He closes the book and holds it in his hands. Squeezes, hard, like if he puts enough pressure on the pages, the words will melt away. Will cease to exist. "You need to go," he repeats, louder, like his words can somehow erase the ones Timmy has carved into him. They don't.


	11. Part Two.

The book is on the kitchen counter. 

Armie has moved it multiple times since he finally pushed Timmy out of his apartment. 

(Pushed? Had he actually pushed Timmy out? He remembers Timmy trying to take the book from him, remembers Timmy holding his wrists, trying to hold onto him. Trying to stop him from moving away. Vaguely recalls Timmy saying, "Why did you go through my stuff," like _he_ was the one who was hurt. Remembers laughing at Timmy's indignant attack change. "Do you always go through people's shit? I fucking told you I didn't want you to read that." Remembers holding the book above Timmy's head like this was an actual schoolyard fight, and how fucking fitting is that?

Yeah, he had pushed Timmy out. Had shoved his bag into his hands and pushed Timmy out the door. He doesn't remember what he said--had he said anything? Is it best not to remember?--but he remembers closing the door and locking it. Looking out the peephole and watching Timmy bend over to zip up his bag. Sling it over his shoulder and walk halfway down the hall. Turn back and raise his hand like he was going to knock. 

Armie wonders if Timmy would have apologized. He never found out because Timmy just shook his head and walked away. Slapped the wall. 

When Armie walked away from the door, he tripped over Timmy's shoes and, on instinct, picked them up and put his hand on the doorknob. Ready to run after him. Remembering that he couldn't just before unlocking the door. He threw them back at the mat and they scattered. Laces tangling.

Yes, he had pushed Timmy out. )

The book moved. From his hands to the couch. From the couch to the coffee table. Into the garbage. Out of the garbage. Opened and bent on the floor where it landed after Armie threw it. Onto the kitchen counter, next to Armie's phone which buzzes all morning but stays face down.  
_____

Armie pulls the sheets off the bed. Tries to hold his breath, but he can still smell Timmy on them. Cologne his sister bought him for his graduation, that stupid conditioner he uses. Sex. 

He pulls the sheets off the bed and tosses them into a corner of the room. The pillowcases and comforter follow. He can do laundry later. When he leans down to sniff the mattress, there's the faint hint of Timmy--of them--but only when he breathes deep. Armie slides onto the mattress, curls into a ball. 

As he doses off, snapshots from the night before flash behind his eyes. Timmy's hand on his hip, massaging the skin and muscles as he pressed inside. Inched in, with his lips on Armie's shoulders, a soft voice telling him how good he felt, how fucking perfect he looked. Armie's hands fisted in the sheets, mouth open. Eyes clenched shut as he just took it; asked Timmy to wait, just a second, _No, no, I just need a second._

Eventually, Armie's hands braced on the headboard while Timmy fucked him, hard. As he jerked Armie off and said, "So good. Are you going to come for me?"

And Armie had nodded. Begged Timmy to fuck him. "Please, please, like that, don't stop," while arching his back and letting Timmy take him. 

Fucking pathetic. 

Armie falls asleep, but he doesn't dream. 

_____

Armie unlocks his phone and ignores the messages from Timmy. 

Armie: _drinks?_  
Armie: _please?_

nick: _can't sorry got this fundraiser to go to with liz_  
nick: _are brown socks acceptable with black shoes?_

Armie swallows and lets his eyes settle on the book. It's still on the counter. He preheats the oven to 425 and pulls a bag of pizza rolls from the freezer. 

Armie: _no. have a good time. makes sure to laugh at all the jokes or liz will yell at you after._

It's solid advice. Advice Armie wishes he'd been given way back when.

He leans against the counter and stares at the book. Imagines putting it in the oven. Wonders if it would burn and says, "Four fifty-one, like the book." He remembers that from high school. He picks the book up and skims through the pages. Stops on a few to read random selections. A girl driving across a bridge with her father. A description of a fading flag. A cat in the rain. But his fingers find page page 86 and he runs his finger along Timmy's name. 

In full, it looks formal. Impressive. Almost scary. Armie closes his eyes and types, "Timmy" in his mind. 

When he opens them, he ignores the damp splotches on the pages and tortures himself with the first lines, even though they're already burned into every part of him, aching in all his joints.

"I knew what I wanted for Christmas and it sure wasn't a Red Ryder BB Gun. No, what I wanted for Christmas was much bigger and blonder than a BB Gun."

Armie wonders if his piece was workshopped. If Timmy sat around in a circle with other students, discussing each line. Saying one thing they liked and one thing that needed to be worked on. Correcting his grammar and suggesting shorter sentences. Wonders if someone--Armie imagines a girl with long dark hair, braided and pulled over her shoulder. Glasses that she pushes up every few sentences--pointed out the comparison between what Timmy really wants and a material object.

The comparison between Armie and a child's toy. 

The oven beeps and Armie shoves the book back to the counter. Pours the bag--the whole damn bag--onto a cookie tray and pushes it into the oven. Grabs a beer.  
_____

Armie dips his pizza rolls in ranch and stares at the television. It's early enough that _House Hunters_ is playing on repeat and he thinks, _Fuck, this day won't end._ Contemplates another nap, but remembers how he woke up with a dry throat, reaching behind himself for a pillow to hug, for a body to hold. How for a moment, he wanted to reach for his phone and call Timmy, ask him what he was up to. 

But then, he had rolled over and the soreness in his body brought back all memories. Reminded him how he had opened himself up for Timmy, spread himself out for the first time. Gave himself over to someone else only to be reminded that he was just a toy. Just a thing.  
_____

Armie doesn't do his laundry, but he showers. Stands in the hot water until it runs cold. As he gets dressed, notices the condom in the waste basket and thinks, _At least he's not still inside me._ Checks his phone and ignores multiple messages from Timmy just so he can check the time. If he leaves now, he can get to the liquor store before it closes.  
_____

In the morning, Armie is cold. He sits up in bed and stretches; glares at the sheets in the corner. His head aches and his back is sore, but he doesn't reach for a pillow, doesn't wish for a body. 

He heats a coffee cup of water in the microwave and watches the digits tick down to zero. Unplugs his coffee machine and pushes it to the side. When the microwave dings, Armie spoons in some instant granules and takes his phone with him to the living room. He debates just deleting the messages, but he can't. 

timmy: _you had no right to go through my shit_

timmy: _armie i'm sorry_  
timmy: _but you weren't supposed to see that_  
timmy: _and i know that's fucking stupid to say and i just shouldn't have written it_  
timmy: _can i please come over? i don't want to go back to school without talking about this._

timmy: _armie please_  
timmy: _you're being a bit ridiculous about this_  
timmy: _like it's just a fucking essay and i didn't even mean it_  
timmy: _i mean like now i don't mean it_  
timmy: _fuck i don't know what i'm saying armie_

timmy: _this is really immature armie just talk to me_

timmy: _can we please just talk_  
timmy: _you're the best thing in my life and i didn't mean to hurt you_

timmy: _I love you, Armie._

timmy: _Still love you, Armie._

timmy: _Sleep well._  
timmy: _Love you._

Armie exhales; he feels winded. Tosses his phone on the coffee table.  
_____

He gets texts throughout the day that he reads and closes. A few missed calls. Twice, Timmy knocks on his door and Armie quietly looks through the peephole. Doesn't breathe, just watches as Timmy scratches the back of his neck. Cracks his fingers. Waits. He wants to be the first one to walk away, to not only leave the door unanswered but walk away and let Timmy stand alone. But both times, he watches silently until Timmy walks away. Pads down the hall in his socked feet. 

He looks unshowered and Armie wonders if Timmy smells like them. 

Before he goes to bed, Armie checks his texts. Timmy has been silent for a few hours and Armie wonders if he's given up. If that was it and Timmy has moved on. But then, his phone lights up in his hands. 

timmy: _had to go back to school._  
timmy: _early class_  
timmy: _i'll try calling you tomorrow_  
timmy: _Sleep well. I love you, Armie._

Armie sets his alarm and closes his eyes. Remembers all the times Timmy said he loved him. Feels bad that he never said it out loud, never let Timmy hear it.  
_____

On Monday, Nick is all reserved smiles. 

"Good weekend?" Armie asks as he does a walkthrough of the studio. 

Nick shrugs. "Yeah, I mean. We just went to the fundraiser. Lazy Sunday," he says, but he bites his lip and then grins at the ground. Armie wonders if he was this disgusting about Timmy. "You? Didn't Timmy spend the weekend?"

Armie nods and locks the camera onto the tripod. "Yeah." Looks away to say, "Just another weekend." 

Between clients, Armie checks his e-mail. There's one from a gallery twenty minutes outside of the city that want to meet with him about possibly showing some of his work. He responds, trying to hide the smile on his face from Liz, Nick. Not wanting to get his hopes up, even though they're already eye level. He presses send and immediately opens a message to Timmy; starts to tell him and then remembers. 

Delete, delete, delete. 

"Want to get dinner tonight?" Liz asks while they're cleaning up at the end of the day, and Armie declines. Says he's going to go for a walk. Take some pictures, maybe.  
_____

That's how it goes. Armie works and goes for walks. Tries to find a hidden place everyday that can be his. Just for a moment. He takes pictures and goes home; edits them and meticulously files them on his computer. 

He reads Timmy's texts, but they get further and further apart. By the second weekend, Armie is only getting two texts a day. 

timmy: _Good Morning. I love you, Armie._  
timmy: _Sleep well. I love you, Armie._

He doesn't respond, at least not really. He will type responses and then delete them. Fantasizes about accidentally hitting "send" and how that would all play out. Would they just pick up where they left off? 

By the third weekend, the texts stop. 

By the fourth weekend, Armie deletes Timmy's number.  
____

It comes up after Thanksgiving when Nick comes by with leftovers. When he asks if Armie did Thanksgiving at Timmy's parents' place. Asks if he brought his famous green bean casserole. The secret is mixing in American cheese. Nick sits up straight, says, "Wait what?"

Armie stands up and asks, "Need another beer?" Grabs their empties and walks to the kitchen. Tosses them in the recycling and opens the fridge. Grabs two cans and walks back. 

"Armie, when the hell did you guys break up? Why didn't you tell me?"

Armie shrugs; lies, "It wasn't a big deal, okay? You were right. He was too young and he did some immature shit and I--"

"What immature shit?" Nick is at full attention now. Eyes wide. He looks like he wants to shove Armie's shoulder and also hug him; Armie is glad when Nick chooses to keep his hands to himself. 

Armie hasn't talked to anyone about it; hasn't had anyone _to_ talk to about it. Nick and Liz have been busy with one another and, really, Armie doesn't have anyone else he wants to talk to. And how pathetic is that? Not even thirty and he's already lost his college friends, already resorted to a life of working and going on _walks_ as a hobby. Not even thirty and the only people he can trust with a meaningful conversation are his ex-fiance and his best friend who are now dating and _when the fuck did this become my life?_

"Armie? Where'd you go?" Nick asks. Snaps his fingers in front of Armie's face. "When the fuck did you break up with Timmy?"

Armie opens his beer and takes a long drink. It's cheap, but at the rate he's been drinking lately, he can't afford to always drink beer from gypsy breweries run by a former Danish schoolteacher. "We didn't really break up we just," he takes another drink. Swallows. "I don't know, I just--"

"Spit it out," Nick says and reaches for the other beer. "This shit is awful, by the way."

"It was a few weeks ago and I realized you were right and he was too young and I was just, I don't know. Caught up in someone liking me I guess."

Nick nods and turns back to the television. They've been watching a Lifetime Christmas movie; it started off as a drinking game, but they both quickly realized they were not in college anymore. 

Armie is glad when Nick drops it. He waits until the next commercial break, the next beer, to ask, "Do you think there are any open units at your building?" 

Nick doesn't know, but he'll check on Monday.  
_____

Liz does not drop it. 

She shows up before Armie has a chance to shower on Monday. "I brought coffee," she says, thrusting one of the to-go cups at Armie followed by a white bag. "And muffins. Drink. Eat." 

Armie takes the coffee and the bag. "Why are you--"

"I'm firing you," Liz says, kicking the door shut. She locks it and then takes a long sip of her coffee. Makes a grab for the bag and moves to the counter. 

Armie turns, says, "You can't fire me--"

"Unless the next words out of your mouth are 'Because I quit,' you need to stop." She pulls her muffin out of the bag and shoves the book aside so she can set down her muffin and coffee. 

Armie glares. Takes the other muffin and bites a chunk out of the top. He watches while Liz carefully peels the wrapper off and takes a bite out of hers. Humors her with a question. "Why am I being fired, then?"

She sighs and says, "Nick told me you and Timmy broke up." 

Armie imagines them sitting around, talking about him, and he hates it. "Right," he says. Puts the muffin down and crosses his arms. Realizes he has no chance of looking stern with bed hair and an old shirt from high school that has pit stains. 

"And I'm sorry, that's awful. Timmy was great and I thought you were stupid at first, but clearly I judged that too quickly," she says and it sounds sincere. She takes another bite and washes it down with her coffee. "But Timmy was your next engagement. You asked me to marry you because you felt you should. Then, you come out and run into the first relationship because you felt you should. And--"

"I did not run into the first--"

She counters, "How many dates did you go on before settling on Timmy? Did you try buying anyone a drink at the bar? Even bother setting up a dating profile? I know you, Armie." She smiles and reaches out. Squeezes his shoulder, but he pulls away. Can't shake the image of her and Nick sitting around at dinner or before bed and talking about him. About his personal life, his mistakes. "You jump into things that seem like a sure thing and then you--"

"And then I, what? Jump into bed with some teenager? Try to take back years I wasted pretending to be someone I wasn't and--"

"Yeah, pretty much." Liz was never good at sugarcoating things. "I'm sorry that you feel you wasted years of your life, but I was there with you." He wants to thank her for reminding him that he wasted her life, too. That he wasted her time and Nick's time, all so he could try to fit his life into a timeline. "We don't get those years back. When I first met you, you wanted to be a photographer. You did shows at galleries, you traveled, you--" 

"I _am_ a photographer," Armie reminds her. "I take pictures every fucking day."

"Of women in lingerie," she reminds him. As if he doesn't know that he went to school for years to improve on his passion only to fall complaisant in a nine to five job. She picks at her muffin and takes another sip of coffee. "So, anyways, I'm firing you so you can get your life together. And stop wasting time." Looks around the apartment. At unwashed dishes and the pile of sheets that still faintly smell like Timmy.

(He eventually bought new ones. And moved the sheets near the front door. Febrezed the comforter.)

"You should really clean up. Do you need the day off? We only have two clients today and Nick is decent with--"

"I thought I was fired," Armie spits. 

She shrugs. "Consider it a two month notice. Two week? However long you want. Are you going to finish that," she points at his muffin as she finishes hers off.

He pushes it towards her.  
_____

The gallery loves his work. On a Wednesday night, Nick helps him frame a few prints and drive them over. They (really, Nick) come up with arbitrary prices and Armie repeats that no one actually buys shit at these galleries. On the way home, they stop for dinner and Nick says, "The coffee shop by my--ooh, _our apartment_. That's fun to say, neighbor. Anyways, the coffee shop across the street sells postcards by local artists. You should look into that." 

So, he does. 

Armie starts a website and works on it as a break from packing boxes. He didn't realize how much crap he'd accumulated in the last few years and it feels good to sort through it. To toss out shirts that don't fit and books he doesn't want to read. He tells himself that for every box he donates or throws in the dumpster, he gets to work on his website for an hour. 

By the time he moves out of his apartment, his website is complete. He offers prints for sale and lists prices for head shots and graduation pictures. Vaguely wonders what it would take--if he has it in himself--to do wedding photography. 

He is officially fired two months after Liz stole the rest of his muffin.  
_____

On New Year's Eve, Armie gets slightly buzzed at Nick and Liz's (really, Liz's, but she makes Nick host because his apartment has more parking) dinner party. He cuts himself off after three drinks, even though he just has to walk up a flight of stairs to his apartment. As he's leaving, he gets a text from an unknown number. 

unknown: _guess i'm the only sentimental asshole this year_  
unknown: _wishing you all the best_  
unknown: _i'm still sorry_

Attached is a dimly lit picture of a laundry room. Armie remembers fabric softener and sweatpants. The taste of wine being pushed into his mouth.

Armie types a lot of things and deletes them. Finally presses send. 

Armie: _Happy New Year, Timmy._  


He pockets his phone and unlocks the door to his apartment. He still has a lot of unpacking to do.

_____

**End of Part Two.**


	12. Part Three.

Armie doesn't open the invitation immediately. He tosses it on the counter and sifts through a few bills. Grabs a handful of junk mail and throws it in the recycling. Then, he goes out back to water the grass. The previous owners had a dog who apparently peed on every inch of the lawn, leaving burnt, straw-colored patches everywhere. He spent the first month of home ownership on his hands and knees, pulling out dead grass, reseeding and watering obsessively. 

Now, it's starting to look like a lawn. A place to have a barbecue when he finally decides on a grill. 

So, he doesn't open the invitation immediately. He doesn't even think about it until hours later when he's walking through the house, padding from room to room to turn off lights, check that windows are locked, the alarm is on. He stops in the kitchen to get a glass of water and is halfway through a gulp when the pearlescent ivory envelope catches his eye. 

He sets the glass down and picks the envelope up. Laughs when he sees it's addressed to "Mr. Armand Douglas Hammer," and imagines Nick grinning as he typed the name. Liz rolling her eyes, but smiling. 

He rolls his eyes and tosses the envelope back on the counter. He'll deal with it in the morning.   
______

Armie wakes up late, which is something he has been doing lately. Without the sound of the city--of neighbors and dogs barking and alarms and everyone else's lives--he sleeps through his alarm regularly. He skips the shower, grabs a banana and granola bar from the kitchen, his camera bag from the foyer, and starts his drive to the city. 

It's a Saturday, so traffic is quicker than normal and, really, he's volunteering his time and talents so being punctual is _not_ a requirement. But, he doesn't like to keep people waiting, so he drives well over the speed limit so he can stop and get coffee before heading to the dog shelter. 

When he gets there, he's greeted by yaps and barks. Smiles and comments like, "Oh, we almost forgot you were coming! Thankfully it was bath day yesterday!"

Armie grins and asks, "Any new dogs this month?" knowing perfectly well there will be enough dogs needing photographs to fill his morning and early afternoon. Hopefully, he won't have to cancel lunch with Liz and Nick. 

______

There _are_ new dogs, but not as many as normal. Armie falls in love with each of them. Spends the first five minutes of each shoot rolling around on the ground with them, making sure their ears are perked up and they look ready to play. Ready to go home, ready to have a home, ready to be home. By noon, his knees hurt from crawling around on the ground and his pants are covered in hair and slobber, but the pictures are done. 

He lets the girl at the front desk know he'll send the pictures over by Monday morning, and then he asks her if they've had a lot of adoptions this month. 

She winks and asks, "Do you want to see Archie?" 

He _does_ but he knows he shouldn't. Knows that every time he visits Archie, he gets inches closer to adopting him and he does not need a dog. He has a new house with basement that needs finishing and a garage door that doesn't work. His schedule changes almost daily and, fingers crossed, he might be taking a freelance job that will let him travel to Italy for a few months. He can't bring a dog to Italy. 

But the girl says, "He's extra fluffy from his bath," in a singsong voice, and Armie huffs a playful sigh and drops his bag behind the counter. 

"Just ten minutes," he warns. 

Ten minutes turns into twenty minutes of fetch, which drags out into a walk around the neighborhood, then finishes with Armie locking Archie back in his kennel repeating, "You're the good boy. No, you're the best boy. The best boy," and reminding himself to share Archie's page on Facebook so someone he knows might adopt him. 

______

On his way to brunch, Armie stops at the gallery. He's only sold one photograph this month, but his take is a few hundred dollars. Enough to make the decision to hire a cleaning person for the next month; he never realized how dirty baseboards get just by existing. 

He gets to the restaurant early and orders a beer. Sends a message to the cleaning person he'd gotten an estimate from a few weeks ago, then checks his e-mails. A few inquiries about senior pictures and engagement shoots, one question about a destination wedding (and he is _technically_ booked for the summer, but he might make an exception for a trip to Hawaii), and then a familiar name that he can't put his finger on. 

Nicole Flender. 

He repeats the name in his mind and is about to tap the e-mail when thin arms wrap around his neck and lips press against his temple. "Everyone _loves_ the pictures, Armie. Seriously, I can't thank you enough."

Liz plops down in the booth next to him and steals a sip of his beer. He grins and asks, "Do we know a Nicole Flender?" He can only tell her it was his pleasure so many times. He raises his eyebrows in a greeting to Nick, who sits across the table, immediately slouching and taking up too much leg space. Armie nudges his shin with his toe, but Nick doesn't move. Just waggles his eyebrows at Armie. Says, "Nicole?"

Armie nods and puts his phone aside. "Yeah, she just e-mailed me. Looks like she wants head shots done?" 

Nick sits up, grins. "Maybe she wants to give you some--fuck!" He sits up and this time, it wasn't Armie nudging his shins. Nick reaches under the table and massages what is likely going to be a very pointy shaped bruise. "Uncalled for," he says to Liz. 

"Name doesn't sound familiar to me," Liz says. She ignores Nick. "I can check my client list if you--"

Armie shakes his head. "No, not a big deal. I'll figure it out when I get home. Have you guys made a decision about when to do the family portraits at--"

Just as Liz starts to pick up, Nick raises his hand off the table a few inches. Asks, "Can we _not_ talk about this for one day?" 

Liz sighs, but Armie nods. Says, "I went to see the dogs today."

Liz and Nick share a glance across the table and Liz asks, "How's Archie?" 

______

Armie doesn't make it home. He gets to his car and opens the e-mail. 

 

**From: Nicole Flender [flender.nicole@gmail.com]  
To: Hammer Photography [armie@hammerphotography.com]  
Subject: Head Shots for Nonprofit**

I'm not sure if you remember me, but we used to be neighbors and you were quite close with my son, Timmy. Perhaps this isn't something you do, but the organization I work with is in need of head shots for an upcoming show. You did such wonderful head shots for Timmy that I thought of you immediately. After looking at your website, it seems like this isn't something you do regularly, but I thought I'd reach out just in case! If you could let me know your rates and availability, it would be much appreciated. 

Glad to see you are doing well! Your photography is just beautiful!

Best, 

Nicole

 

Armie lets his head fall back against the headrest. Closes his eyes. Immediately sees curls and pink lips. Sloping shoulders and long arms. His mind paints a picture that was seemingly erased years ago, and the speed and attention to detail is alarming. 

"Fuck," he says before tossing his phone to the side and starting the engine. He takes a detour on the way home, driving by his old apartment. He doesn't stop, but he slows down. The building hasn't changed much and it feels like deja vu. By the time he's pulling into his driveway, the sun is beginning to look heavy in the sky and Armie has decided he'll delete the e-mail. 

He checks the mail and it's all junk that he tosses into the recycling. He sets his camera bag down on the counter and picks up the invitation. Uses his pointer finger to rip it open, reminding himself he needs to find his letter opener. It got lost in the move and he's gotten way too many paper cuts. 

He pulls out the invitation and has to admit the pictures do look good, even though he already knew that. Nick and Liz chose to have their engagement pictures done at the park, early in the morning. The lighting is nice, like the world around them is warm and slow. He sifts through the items until he finds the RSVP card. He finds a pen and writes "Armand Douglas Hammer" on the line, adds a smiley face, and checks "Accepts." He chooses the steak and after the phrase "Total number of guests attending," scratches a single line. 

The line looks bold. Lonely. 

He decides to sleep on the e-mail. 

_____

At night, Armie stares at the ceiling. His bedroom is dark. Darker than he was ever used to, which somehow makes it harder for him to sleep. Tonight it seems next to impossible and he turns on his bedside lamp and grabs his phone. Checks Reddit and Facebook. 

Types "Timmy Chalamet" into the search bar, but deletes it before anything loads. Maybe he goes by his full name now, or has decided to shorten it to Tim. There's a good chance he doesn't even have a Facebook; it seems to be going out of style. 

He puts his phone back on his bedside table and pulls a pillow over his face. 

He's going to delete the e-mail.   
_____

Armie wakes up early on Sunday. He drinks coffee and sits on his patio. Walks barefoot through the grass and checks for new growth. Remembers that he didn't water the day before; he should wait until dusk to do it tonight. He curls his toes into a particularly lush tuft of grass and feels the dew roll onto his skin. It's cold, but it feels nice. It reminds him of an early morning swim; he used to wake up early with his mom to go swimming in the summer. Sometimes, in the spring and fall, too. Those are some of his favorite thoughts of his mom. He doesn't think of them as memories; they're nothing stored in a box under his bed or kept in the back of his mind to make him smile during rush hour. Just something fleeting that he views like a page in a textbook: the moon landing was in 1969, the last ice age ended between eleven and twelve thousand years ago, and Armie and his mom used to swim. 

He does the math; he hasn't talked to her in four years. _That means you haven't talked to Timmy in five,_ his brain flashes, and it's like Timmy is a permanent part of his timeline. A notch with a date and a list of facts that could fit on an index card, even though he'd never need to study it. Facts that come to mind like a knee jerk reaction.

Armie wonders what it would be like if the notch had _moved_ and was closer to the present than the past. Would the time frame be longer? Or would it simply have vanished? Would it still be going?

He goes inside to make breakfast. Eggs and toast. While he eats, he reads over Nicole's e-mail again. It's a good opportunity; he's been trying to do as many varied projects as possible. Some quick Googling reveals she is a board member for a nonprofit that provides free after school art classes and workshops for middle school and high school students. Classes covering everything from painting and photography to writing and dance. 

He looks up the address. Knows the area. Is aware that a lot of kids living there wouldn't be getting this opportunity anyways. 

He sighs and shoves the last bit of toast into his mouth. Starts a response.   
______

On Wednesday, Nick comes over after he finishes at the studio. Armie's had an engagement shoot that sent him to a state park two hours out of the city, so he spent the rest of the day trying to get some new shots for the gallery. They said they were looking for a more natural theme in a few months, and apparently concrete and chain link fences were not natural. He's glad to be back at his house, even if it's not in the city. 

Nick, however, is glad to be away from the city. "The centerpieces have taken over our entire bedroom," he says. "Just vases and those little silver," he pinches his fingers together and wiggles them slightly. 

"Crushed glass," Armie fills in. "Just wait until she starts doing the seating arrangement." He grins at the pan in front of him. Checks the underside of the salmon before reaching for the pan of Brussels sprouts and giving it a quick shake. "I do have a guest bedroom, you know. You could twist it that you want to have a traditional lead-up to the big day." 

"Very tempting," Nick muses. He reaches for the beer Armie poured (in an actual, proper beer glass) and asks, "Do you need any help?" But he doesn't look willing to move from his place at the kitchen island. 

It's nice, just the two of them. It feels like high school, like college. Like before Liz, before they became a sort of triangle that was always changing angles. And he likes their triangle, has grown accustom to usually being the short side, but this is nice. So he says, "I figured out who Nicole is." He doesn't look up from the pan; the salmon is almost done. Nick may not be able to distinguish overcooked salmon, but Armie can. "Remember Timmy from the apartment? It's his mom."

There's silence and then, "Wait, like _Timmy_?" 

Armie nods and flips the salmon. 

"Wow. What does she want? He son's innocence back?" he jabs. 

Armie gives the Brussels another shake and turns the burner off. Splits them between two plates. He's never told Nick--or anyone--that it wasn't like that. That it was quite the opposite, that he wants to take things back from Timmy. And yet would go back and give him everything all over again. 

He checks the salmon. Turns the burner off and puts them both on plates. Carries the plates to the island and slides one in front of Nick. "I like suburban Armie," Nick comments, picking up his fork and stabbing at the salmon. "Anyways, that's kinda random, no?" 

Armie shrugs and sits down. Goes for the Brussels first. "I did his senior head shots and that's what she's looking for. It's for this art program, so I think I'll do it. Looks like a--"

"You don't have to explain it to me," Nick says. "He's not a kid anymore, so if you want to--"

"This isn't about Timmy it's just a good opportunity to get my name out there."

He can feel the frustration rolling off Nick. "Your name _is_ out there. Have you decided on Italy yet?" 

Armie shakes his head. "I make more money with the wedding stuff and--"

"And you could make even more money doing what you _want_ if Italy goes well." 

It's true, so Armie nods. "I'm still thinking about it. Also, I'm not sure what I'd do with the house and--"

"Well, I'll stay here, clearly. Liz and I can play house."

Armie doesn't have the heart to tell him Liz has already been looking at houses. He doesn't want him to know that his sprint is actually a marathon; after the wedding, there will be house shopping. House shopping, then kids. Armie's not jealous, but he does hope Nick gets how lucky he is. 

"Also, you're just avoiding this topic. You should see what he's up to." He says it casually, between bites, making no eye contact, and Armie knows what he's getting at. Knows that even for all the shit Nick gave him about Timmy, he realized that the alternatives have been awful. 

To put it nicely, Armie's dating life (when not lacking) has been pathetic. Troubling at times. A lesson in bad judgement and desperation. 

Armie shakes his head. "I'm not going to call up my ex from half a decade ago. Besides, he's probably dating someone or--"

"I didn't say date him. I said call him up. Everything ended pretty abruptly and you--"

"Do you need salt? I need salt," Armie says. He stands up and goes to the cupboard for the salt. When he comes back, he glares at Nick, letting him know this conversation is over. This conversation has been over for half a decade. 

That night, he gets a response from Nicole. It's to the point, and they plan for a shoot next Wednesday.

_____ 

Armie's schedule keeps him on his feet. He was never the planning type, but he's had to fake it in order to make his career work. He learned to use the calendar on his phone, actually sets alarms a half hour before he should be someplace, and has adopted the motto "If you're early, you're on time." It sickens him, really, but he keeps reminding himself that he's not in his twenties anymore. He owns a house, damnit. He's responsible. 

But everything seems to move faster with a schedule. Days slip by without him noticing; the phrase, "I can do that tomorrow," hangs in the back of his mind most nights. Then tomorrow comes and before he knows it, he didn't work on a personal project or make a decision on Italy. 

Anyways, next Wednesday comes quicker than he realized. Quicker than he planned on, and Tuesday night, he's up too late washing a load of clothes. He wants to wear his nicer jeans. Not because it's Nicole, but because it's a new client and first impressions matter. He thought that was bullshit for too long. Thought that until he would meet an awful bride and groom and decide he would be "busy" the weekend of their wedding. 

So, he washes the nice jeans and waits for them to dry. Pulls them out of the dryer and hangs them up in the bathroom so they don't get wrinkled. 

And then he tries to sleep. Tries, but it's too quiet. He turns off the air conditioning in the house and opens a window. The distant hum of traffic is barely noticeable, but it's better than nothing. He goes to the living room and turns the television on; keeps the volume low and then goes back to bed. 

Well after midnight, he gives in. Lines a row of pillows behind his body and sinks back into it. Drapes his own arm over his waist and imagines, for a moment, it is someone else toying with his navel, sliding up along his sternum. Back down to playfully dip below his boxers. 

He tenses when he realizes what he's doing, the picture that he's painting behind his closed eyes. The shoulders he's imagining behind him. The thin fingers. He snaps his hand away and tries to erase everything. Debates picking up his phone and e-mailing Nicole. Letting her know this isn't going to work. He's too busy. He double-booked. He's sick. 

He is sick, isn't he? "Fuck," he says into the darkness. For once, he's glad it's too dark in the room. That it feels as though he's so alone that nothing he even conjures in his mind can matter. That none of it is real. None of this is happening.

It's not real--and no one will know--so he kicks his blankets off and pushes his boxers down. He's already half hard and it only takes a few strokes to get all the way there. He rolls on his back, the pillows half under his body, and hopes to just get it over with. That a release will put an end to this, will erase everything once again. 

But he's sick and he's weak and as his toes start to curl, he thinks about touching himself. About opening himself up in a way he hasn't for years, for letting someone in, even if it's just himself. 

When he comes, he presses back against the pillows. Pretends and imagines--maybe even wishes--but remembers he's in the dark and none this is happening. Convinces himself of this fact so well that he allows himself to fall asleep with his arm draped over his waist, face buried into the pillows like someone is holding him close.


	13. Part Three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mentioned this on tumblr: i have a pretty big life change happening shortly, so updates will likely be even more sporadic going forward. i appreciate your patience! and also, apologies for any and all mistakes; my mind is in a million places lately.

Timmy's voice hits Armie. 

It doesn't knock the wind out of him or shake him to his core or sweep his feet out from under him. It just hits him everywhere at once. He doesn't comprehend the words, just the voice. A voice that sounds older, not because of years but because of people and places. Different but familiar. Safe but untouchable. 

He licks his lips. Leans towards the intercom and opens his mouth, but doesn't speak. Can't remember what he's responding to, anyways. 

"I said the studio doesn't open until three, but if this is an emergency, I can--"

"I'm here for the head shots," Armie says. Wonders if his voice hits Timmy or if it bounces off. Evaporates. He clarifies, "I spoke with your--"

The door buzzes and the lock clicks open. Armie pulls on the handle and props the door open with his hip long enough to make sure the tripod and his bag are safely inside the building, which looks like it used to be for apartments. 

He scans the space for a camera. It doesn't look like the type of place to have superfluous security, but Armie has to be sure. Wants to know that if he changes his mind and leaves, if an e-mail would be the only proof. A date and time that he showed up to, but disappeared during. Did he really exist in the same building as Timmy if his voice bounced off his ears, these walls, and evaporated? 

This morning, he'd woken with his face buried in pillows. Thought, "What's the worse that canhappen?" which has been his mantra for the past five years. Words that kept him moving forward. Building. Every realistic scenario ended with him leaving the studio and saying, "Well, tell Timmy I said hi." Wiping his hands clean of the entire situation. A situation that was never wiped clean, never stored away. He could officially put the ball in Timmy's court and move on, even if it was a weak pass. 

But this? This is the worst that could happen. Timmy isn't supposed to be here. 

There's no camera, and he's dedicated to turning back. To leaving and keeping his head down as he walks back to his car. He'd had to park almost a mile away, and it would be a long walk of shame. One he deserves for not thinking this through, for not preparing himself.

He gives the room one more glance, then starts to turn around, just as the door opens and a woman walks in, balancing a coffee carrier, her purse, and a bulky paper bag. She's wrestling with her keys in the door, so Armie steps in and takes the paper bag from her. "Here," he says. "I can--"

"Got it!" she exclaims as the keys come loose. The door closes and she gives Armie a once over. "You must be the photographer! I'm Greta. Executive Director. Nicole said the nicest things about you," she says and then nods her chin towards the stairs, starts moving like she had to be some place an hour ago. Armie gets the feeling she's always like this. "We're on the second floor."

Armie nods and follows. Each step feels like he's sinking. 

_____

The studio is a wide open space with long tables and chairs, a couch, and armchairs. Bookshelves are scattered throughout as well as easels and instruments. Mainly guitars; a few ukuleles. 

The walls are covered with drawings. A bit of photography that under different circumstances, Armie would want to examine closer. He stays near the door and watches as Greta flits about. Sets the coffee and her purse on the table, grabs the bag from Armie. Calls out, "Coffee and photographer are here!" before turning to Armie and saying, "I never got your name." 

"Armie," he says. It feels good to be unknown, even if it's just for a moment. He scans the space, but it's empty. No sign of Timmy. The studio feels like a stripped apartment. A small kitchenette is to his left; a door in the back corner is clearly the bathroom. The bedroom has a sign that says "Staff Only." 

Greta nods and asks, "Where do you think is the best place to set up?"

He'd been hoping for some natural light and he's rewarded by a wall of windows; it feels like the only victory he might get today. He nods towards them and asks, "Do you have a stool? For people to sit on?" as he walks over to set down his bag, the tripod. 

Greta looks like she has an idea and starts walking to the "Staff Only" room. Armie knows Timmy must be in there and he wants to look, wants to peer in, but also wants to hide in his work. He kneels down to look for chapstick in his bag; when Greta opens the door, he hears pieces of what is probably supposed to be a private argument. 

"Because this is embarrassing, Mom. It's been like four years and I don't want to see--" 

The door closes behind Greta. Armie finds his chapstick and applies it with shaky hands. It's been five years, but maybe Armie is the only one counting. 

None of this feels like it's happening. Like it should be happening. He hasn't even planned what he would say to Timmy if he ran into him. Would he apologize? Part of Armie is offended at the notion he has anything to apologize for. In his mind, he can spin the tale a thousand ways and, each time, Timmy is the villain. From every angle, from every vantage point, Timmy is the antagonist. 

_And what does that make you?_ Armie pulls out his camera; he maneuvers the strap over his head, pushes his arm through. Secures it against his back while he sets up the tripod. _You're not a hero, you're not the protagonist. You ran._

_You are nothing in this._

The door creaks and there's another brief snippet. 

"I can't just _leave_ , Mom, it'll look like a--"

Armie fights the urge to look towards the sound. Locks the tripod legs in place. "Will this be okay?" There's a click as the door closes, so Armie turns to see Greta holding a cheap wooden stool. 

He nods and cocks his head to where he'd like it placed. "Thanks, that's perfect." 

She walks over to put the stool down, all the while looking like there are words and questions ready to spill out of her mouth. He wonders what else she heard in the room. If Timmy's face was red, if Nicole's arms were crossed, if they were even looking at one another. If they noticed Greta's existence. If Timmy noticed, or if he was consumed with trying to get out. To leave. To evaporate. 

"Do you mind," Armie gestures at the stool. "So I can check the lighting?" 

Greta nods and sits down. She slumps forward, knees on her thighs. "The kids are really excited about this. They've been planning for the show for months." 

Armie nods. Smiles and remembers why he's here. "Could you sit up a bit straighter? And look to the right," he directs. When she looks to left he jokes, "No, your other right." Remembers how well that joke would go over with nervous women in lingerie.  
_____

Armie: _Timmy is here._

Nick: _oooh shit._  
Nick: _he hot?_

Armie: _Probably._  
Armie: _I don't know._  
Armie: _He's in the staff room so I haven't seen him._

Nick: _liz says if you don't talk to him she's going to invite your mom to the wedding._

Armie: _Tell Liz if she invites my mom to the wedding I'll make it look like she has eight chins in all the portraits._

Nick: _HA_  
Nick: _k but really are you gonna talk to him_  
Nick: _you should_

Armie knows he should and he rolls his eyes at the text. Rolls his eyes at the entire situation. At himself. He's about to text back something open ended and snarky when the door to the staff room opens. 

His phone slips from his fingers. Bounces of his knee and clatters to the ground. He slides off the stool and grabs the phone while trying to maintain some semblance of balance in his body, in his life. Looks towards the door to see it closing behind Nicole. Not Timmy. 

He feels elated but let down. 

"Armie!" Nicole beams. He realizes that he has never seen her dressed quite this casually. At the apartment, they always crossed paths when she was either going to or coming from _something_. He wonders if she's retired. He doesn't even know if she's old enough to retire. He was rarely in a position to have that type of conversation with Nicole. Or any real conversation at all. Maybe that's why she didn't think twice about asking him to do this. "Look at you!"

He smiles and gives a small wave from mid-waist. "Good to see you," he says as she crosses the room and envelops him in a quick hug. "How have you been?"

"Oh," he starts, but she pulls back and looks over her shoulder at the staff room. 

She whispers, "Timmy is being a bit silly. I forgot to tell him you were coming." 

Near the door, Greta snorts. He wonders, fleetingly, what she thinks of this whole situation. If she's pieced it all together. If she thinks Armie is sick, even though Timmy is very much an adult now. Was an adult five years ago. 

Armie feels sick, even if he shouldn't.

"He normally volunteers here on Fridays, but his classes are done for the year and he's been helping out more often." 

Armie nods. "He's still in school?" 

Nicole smiles, obviously proud. "Grad school this year! He's the graduate assistant for the school's journal, and next semester he plans on teaching as well. I'm sure he doesn't post about it on the Facebook, but he's had quite a few pieces published this year. Sure makes up for the cold feet he had when he started in the writing program." 

Armie blinks. He's slightly amused that Nicole thinks he and Timmy would be Facebook friends. That they would be friends. He wants to ask what happened to theater, how Timmy got cold feet, what he's published, but that would clearly ruin whatever illusion Nicole has of Timmy and Armie being _friendly_ by any definition of the word. 

What _did_ he publish? Armie's thumb rubs the side of his phone. "Well, that's great," Armie says. "So, does this set-up work for the head shots?"

He ignores Greta's stare.  
_____

The job is easy. The kids arrive in clusters. Grouped, Armie guesses, by bus routes and schools. He tries to make conversation with each one, tries to pull genuine smiles out of them by asking about the upcoming show or what project they're working on next. He asks a few why they are here, how they got involved, but stops when one girl says, "I met Timmy at a poetry reading and he suggested I stop by." 

He doesn't need to know that. He's okay with Timmy being a voice in a room right now. 

And Timmy stays a voice in the room. Timmy's voice stays in the room, shut behind a door, while the studio fills up with noise. Voices mingle and escalate. It's easy to pinpoint the seniors. They're electric with bouncy nerves. He overhears mentions of graduation parties and summer plans. Last hurrahs. He never heard this from Timmy. Never saw it. Wonders if he took that from him. If instead of debating who was going to steal beer, Timmy had spent his Friday nights with Armie. Had spent his nights in Armie's bed instead of being a teenager. 

_His choice, not yours,_ Armie reminds himself. 

The studio is filled when Armie notices the staff room open. He's about to turn and look, unable to hide his attention (his curiosity? his hope?), but is distracted when the next student slides up onto the stool and says, "I really hate having my picture taken." He snaps his head towards her. She's small. Probably a freshman or sophomore. Her face is hidden behind long bangs. 

"Me neither," Armie says. He resists the urge to turn and look, because the kid grins and he wants to turn it into an actual smile.

Click. 

"I take it you're a photographer, too?" Armie asks. He mimics how she should sit. Turns a bit to the right and taps the bottom of his chin up with his fingers. She nods. "The good part about being behind the camera is you rarely have to be in front of it," he says. Click, click. "Do you have anything I can look at while I'm here? I could use a break after this." 

Then her grin turns to a smile and she starts talking about a new project she started that showcases different students' lockers in various school districts. 

When he gets a few good head shots of her, he slings his camera behind his back and asks her to show him her photography. He's following her to the back wall when he sees Timmy, sitting at a table covered in stacks of paper near the wall of prints. His face hits Armie harder than his voice had. He concentrates on his steps, doesn't want to stumble. Doesn't want his first look at Timmy in five years to be marred by the embarrassment of falling in front of a room of high schoolers. For once, doesn't want laughter to distract anything. 

Though, he's not sure anything could truly distract him right now, but he doesn't want to take any chances. Because Timmy's hair is longer. (Does he use the same stupid conditioner? The one that Armie can still smell if he closes his eyes and concentrates hard enough?) One side tucked behind his ear and the other loose. A controlled chaos that stops near his jaw. A jaw that, somehow, is sharper than Armie remembers. In all of his memories--in every fantasy--his mind paints a strict, rigid jawline that (once upon a time) Armie would spend half the night tracing with his finger. Would shiver when the sharp angle of it slid along his chest, his inner thighs. 

But now? It's obscene. Harder. Sharper. Harsher. Armie wonders if the rest of Timmy has grown up similarly. Harder, sharper, harsher. 

He looks older. Timmy always seemed mature, but Armie was never fooled into thinking he wasn't dating a high schooler. He was--and he did. It was something he struggled with while it happened and something he still struggles with today. That his most meaningful relationship was with a barely legal high schooler. That no one after--

(Not the guy from the gym who eyed Armie up for about two months before asking him out. They ended up dating for three months, but he mentioned moving in together, so Armie stopped returning his calls. Was busy every time he stopped by. Got a membership at a different gym. 

Not the middle-aged professor who bought three of Armie's prints at one of his shows, then waited around until the gallery closed to ask him out for dinner. Took him home to a three bedroom, two bath house and sucked his cock in the foyer. Asked him if he was clean, said he wanted to come inside him. That they could go slow, as slow as Armie wanted, that he'd treat him right and--

Yeah, not the professor. 

Definitely not Andrew. He wasted over a year of his life on Andrew, but none of it was meaningful. None of it went anywhere but drunken parties and weekend trips where conversation lagged after the second day. He wasted a year on Andrew, who never understood why Armie would even bother looking at houses, why he would bother wanting to settle down like that.)

\--was worth anything compared to a teenager who thought Armie was nothing but an object to win and use. To brag about to his friends, his classmates. Something to put on paper and publish for the world to see. 

He scans Timmy's neck and shoulders, his torso. Where his t-shirt clings to his chest just slightly. He's broader and Armie can't decide if he's substantially bigger or if, in this moment, Armie feels smaller. Smaller than the life he has built for himself, that he has built up around himself. 

He follows the girl closer, unable to look away from Timmy. Feels bad for staring, but only for a moment. Only for a split second. 

Because it's okay that he's staring. It's okay that his eyes dart from curls to elbows to chest like Timmy's body is displayed on a pinball machine and Armie is just there to collect points. 

Because Timmy is blinking at Armie. Letting him stare. Allowing Armie to take what he wants, like Timmy took what he wanted all those years ago. 

It's okay, because there's the possibility that they're on equal ground now. 

When he smiles at Timmy, he gets an eye roll in return. After all, it's only been five years; an eye roll from Timmy is expected. Armie turns his attention to the pictures on the wall. Only then does he feel Timmy's unwavering gaze.  
_____

Armie stops to see Archie. It's the first time he's stopped to see Archie without there being another reason to be at the shelter. The girl at the front desk gives him a knowing look before nodding him into the back room. She doesn't accompany him and he pretends he's just picking his dog up from daycare. That Archie will come home with him and sprint into the mud room. Excited for dinner. Afterwards, they'll go for a walk and Archie will stop to sniff every tree, every mailbox. Back at home, Archie will beg for scraps as Armie cooks. Will watch television with him during dinner. Sleep next to him at night. 

But it's just pretend and when he brings Archie back, it's hard to close the kennel. To say goodbye to Archie.  
_____

Nick wasn't kidding about the centerpieces. They've migrated to the dining room; packets of crushed glass are in boxes on the kitchen floor. 

"So, you just eye fucked him?" Nick asks as he hands Armie a beer. Points at the dining table where name cards are stacked. "Don't even think of touching anything on that table." 

"Oh, the seating arrangement hell as started," Armie laughs. "Wait until she starts inviting buffer friends and relatives."

Nick blinks. His eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"She invited at least fifteen buffers to our wedding. Like, people we _like_ but didn't need at the wedding for any reason other than sitting between Aunt Martha and Aunt Jo and preventing an actual war." Armie's laughs, and he's glad he can do that now. That he can talk about planning his wedding to Liz like it's just a thing that happened and not the beginning of a catalyst. 

Nick seems to realize his jaw is clenched; he loosens it and cracks his neck. "You're avoiding the topic. Eye fucking coward." 

The living room seems safe, so Armie flops on the couch. Sets his beer on the coffee table. Thinks better of it and reaches for a coaster to slip underneath. "For starters, I didn't eye fuck him. I just looked at him and--"

" _And_?" Nick pries like a god damn gossip queen. 

Armie rolls his eyes. Remembers how Timmy had rolled his eyes at him, how it had made his stomach clench, toes curl. How he'd wanted Timmy to playfully insult him. Tease him and laugh. "And he looks good." 

"Good or--"

Armie spits, "What the fuck do you want me to say, Nick? He looks really fucking good and it sucked seeing him. Can we just watch the game and--"

"No," Nick says. He hasn't left the kitchen, but his blunt statement makes Armie realize he's slowly turning into Liz. He glares. "Why didn't you talk to him?"

Armie remembers snippets of the argument he heard between Timmy and Nicole. "He didn't want to see me, Nick." 

"Can you blame him? You just cut him off and--"

"I didn't cut him off." 

Nick grabs his own beer and pours it in a glass. _How civilized,_ Armie thinks as he takes a swig from his bottle. "You moved to a different apartment and blocked his number."

"You _told_ me to block his number," Armie reminds him. "You fucking told me I should block him because--"

"Because you were pathetic. Jumping every time you got a call or text like--"

Armie takes another drink. Pointedly puts the bottle down next to the coaster. "Please shut up." He remembers perfectly well that he'd waited for texts from Timmy. How he refused to break the silence after his text on New Year's Eve. Kept telling himself that it was too soon. That the next time Timmy texted or called, he'd respond. Even if it was a butt dial. 

Nick throws his bottle into the recycling. "Whatever. I did not tell you to never talk to him again like a fucking--"

"You didn't even like him," Armie says. He looks around for the remote. Of course, it's next to the television. He gets up to grab it and reminds Nick, "You never wanted me to date him to begin with." 

Nick shrugs. "Well, he's not a high schooler anymore." 

Armie turns on the television and finds the game. They're already down by two runs. He curses under his breath and sits back down on the couch. "He's still in school. Is that a problem for you?" He means it as a joke, but notices that Nick turns away and starts looking through the snack drawer, shaking his head. "Anyways, it doesn't even _matter_. I smiled at him and he rolled his eyes--"

Nick stands up with a can of Pringles. "Oh my God, just forget I asked. I don't even care anymore. I don't even care," he says as the front door opens and Liz walks in. 

"What don't we care about?" she smiles. Hangs her bag on the coat rack and slips her shoes off. 

"Nothing," Armie and Nick say at the same time.  
_____

Armie goes home and waters his grass. It's filling in nicely, but he's noticed a few dandelions popping up. Read online that the best time to combat dandelions is the fall, so it'll have to wait; he can pull them by hand this year. In a weird way, he looks forward to that. 

He turns the water off and carefully winds the hose back up. It's still nice out, even though the sun has set and the breeze is a bit colder than normal. He sits outside and checks his e-mails. There's a thank you from Nicole and a few inquiries about weddings. A message from the gallery that another print sold. 

It takes him a few tries, but he's able to find blocked numbers on his phone. Most are telemarketers, but he's able to find Timmy's number quickly. Wonders if the number has been burned into his mind this entire time. He hovers, but then taps. Unblocks it, and waits. 

He's not sure what he's waiting for. Maybe old texts? Proof that Timmy tried contacting him over the years? But he knows that's not a possibility. That when he blocked his number, he cut him off. That he told the world, "I don't want to hear from him." That he told Timmy, "I don't want to hear from you," even if Timmy never got that message. 

Wonders if Timmy _had_ tried. Knows he will likely never get that answer. 

He goes inside and locks the doors. It's still relatively early, but it's late enough that he doesn't feel weird going to bed. Today has been exhausting, even if his job was easy. Even if his team won. Even if he didn't have to battle traffic on his way home. 

His phone lights up the room and he scrolls through Twitter, the news. Checks Instagram, even though he doesn't update it as much as he should. Follows a few photographers that are suggested to him. 

Of course, he ends up pulling up a new conversation with Timmy. It's interesting, he thinks, how empty it looks. Part of him wishes he had all their old conversations, but mostly he's glad they don't exist anymore. He's sure they aren't as magical as his memory makes them seem.

While he tries to think of something to say, he saves the number into his contacts.

He should have said something to him today. Even just a quick "Hey," when he was close to him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to talk. It would make this easier. But, Timmy didn't give him much of a chance with his eye roll. With his argument in the staff room. Even later, when Armie was packing up his equipment and the room was chaotic as everyone worked on their projects, Timmy didn't give him a chance. He'd put headphones on as he read over what looked to be a draft, making notes in the margin. Focused. 

He didn't seem to care if Armie existed or not. And that, maybe, is what finally encourages Armie to start typing. The acknowledgement that either Timmy cares, or he doesn't. There is no middle ground. Either he will respond, or he will ignore the text. Words or silence will be his yes or no. 

Armie: _Hey, sorry if things were a bit weird today._  
Armie: _I didn't know you'd be there._

Each time he presses 'send' it feels like the words move too quickly. He thinks about it for a second, then realizes Timmy might not even be getting these texts. He might have changed his number or blocked Armie as well. 

Armie: _This is Armie._  
Armie: _FYI_

He puts his phone down and the room goes dark.  
_____

In the morning, Wednesday feels like a blur. Not quite a dream, but close. Not exactly a nightmare, either. Armie picks up his phone to check the time, but is distracted by the texts. 

Timmy: _glad to know you still text like an old man_  
Timmy: _you waited longer to text than i expected_  
Timmy: _considering how forward you were with the eye fucking today_

Armie: _There was no eye fucking._

The response is almost immediate and Armie pictures Timmy in bed, sleepy and loose, and the image makes his breath quicken.

Timmy: _k_  
Timmy: _keep telling yourself that but there was at least some eye spooning going on then_

Armie grins. Actually laughs out loud and puts the phone back on his bedside table. Rolls onto his stomach and presses his face into the pillows. Presses until his breathing evens out and he feels ready for the day.


	14. Part Three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bart: "hey guys im going to get really busy but im trying to finish these two fics before that happens but it's looking bleak"  
> also bart: "lol let's add another chapter to the total"
> 
> remember when this story was supposed to be five chapters and finished by xmas? those were good days.
> 
> not really sure how i got this done, but here you go!

Armie burns his omelette.

"Fuck," he whispers and turns the burner off. Finishes deleting yet another text draft. He checks the underside of the omelette and decides a little hot sauce can cover it up.

Armie: _Was I not supposed to look at you?_  
Armie: _I didn't have a staff room to hide in._

He grabs hot sauce and a plate from the cupboard. Slides the omelette onto the plate, burnt side down like that will somehow help the taste. By the time he's doused the omelette in hot sauce, settled down at the bar, and taken a bite, there's a response.

Timmy: _wasn't hiding_  
Timmy: _was finishing my coffee_

Armie smirks, remembering the coffee Greta had brought for Timmy and Nicole. Coffee that sat, untouched, on one of the tables. He decides against bringing that up.

Armie: _Right. Needed to be caffeinated to stare at my ass the moment I turned my back._

Timmy: _not my fault you've apparently figured out how to do a proper squat_  
Timmy: _kudos btw_

He swallows hard. When he'd texted Timmy last night, he wasn't sure what to expect. A "wrong number" response or silence had been his vote, which made it easier to press send. Talking to an open space is simple. He hadn't honestly expected his words to hit a surface, to bounce back at him. Each text feels like a trust fall, but he's not sure Timmy is prepared to catch him.

Maybe he doesn't want to be caught. Maybe he shouldn't be; perhaps he just needs to fall one last time.

Armie: _Thanks?_  
Armie: _You look well._  
Armie: _Your mom says you're in grad school. That's great._

Timmy: _dont do that_

Armie: _Do what?_

Timmy: _dont talk to me like a cousin you see once a year_  
Timmy: _why did you accept the job_

The turn in tone is quick. Harsh and sharp.

Armie: _I'm not charging you guys for it._

Timmy: _not what i asked_

Armie puts his phone face down and finishes his omelette. Waits to respond until after he's washed dishes and put them away.

Armie: _How should I talk to you?_

He dawdles. Wipes down the counters and pushes his stool in. Checks the floor for crumbs, but he didn't make toast so it's clean. Briefly thinks about how, if he had a dog, he would probably drop bits of egg for them to pick up. He'd probably have to sweep the floor a lot less. Unless Archie sheds a lot.

Armie stops and rolls his eyes at himself. Puts his phone in his pocket. Unless _his hypothetical dog_ sheds a lot. Archie is not his dog.

His phone vibrates.

Timmy: _tell me why you took the job_  
Timmy: _bc im having a hard time figuring out why youd ignore me for four years _  
__ Timmy _ _: _then take a job for my mom___

 

Armie: _It seems like a good organization._  
Armie: _I also volunteer at a dog shelter; are you going to question my motives there?_

He licks his lips and checks the time. He's running late, so he grabs his wallet and keys. Heads for the door to the garage. Starts his car and presses the button to open his garage before adding one last note.

Armie: _It's been five years, by the way._

The garage door is fully open, so Armie backs out.

_____

When he gets to the city, there's another text from Timmy. It makes him want to throw his phone out the window.

Timmy: _K._

He finds a parking spot at the gallery and turns the engine off.

Armie: _So I don't get an answer, then?_

Timmy: _whats ur question?_

Armie: _How should I be talking to you?_

Apparently, he's talking into an open space now. Silence.

_____

Armie spends most of the day running errands. He picks up a few new frames, makes some calls to new clients. Scouts a few new locations for engagement shoots and does a walk through a park he's not familiar with. He has a wedding there next month. He tries not to check his phone continually, but it's hard not to when he's waiting for an answer to bounce back.

He doesn't get a response until he's at a stop sign three blocks from his house.

Timmy: _talk to me like you've actually thought about me in the last five years_  
Timmy: _or dont talk to me at all_  
Timmy: _please._

The car behind him honks and Armie drops his phone onto the passenger seat. Rolls through every stop the rest of the way and parks on the street so he doesn't have to wait for his garage door to open.

Armie: _~~I've never stopped thinking about you.~~ _

That's not true, so Armie deletes it. He taps the corner of his phone on his chin and stares down the street. His is the only car parked on the block; he can't remember the last time he's had to parallel park. The sprinklers are running two doors down and he wonders how they get rid of their dandelions; the yard is free of the yellow weeds.

Armie: _I tried very hard to not think about you._  
Armie _: But even when I wasn't thinking about you, I was comparing people to you._

He opens his car door and gets out. Waves at Mr. Lambert across the street, but keeps his head down. He's not in the mood for neighborly small talk. Armie grabs his mail and tries to ignore the vibration of his phone as he fumbles with the envelopes. Struggles to get his house key out, but eventually finds himself in his entryway. Walks into the kitchen and sets everything down so he can sort his mail. He only gets two envelopes in the junk pile before he grabs his phone, eager to see Timmy's response to his admission. An admission that he only recently allowed himself to see. Something he has never said out loud, not to himself, not to Nick. Definitely not to Liz.

Timmy: _what people?_  
Timmy _: did you go and get engaged again_  
Timmy _: lol_

Armie _doesn't think it's supposed to be an insult, but it feels like one._

Armie _: Wasn't aware I needed to invest in a chastity belt after we broke up._

Timmy _: lol we never broke up_  
Timmy _: you just stopped talking to me_  
Timmy _: so whos the lucky guy or are you back to fucking women_

Armie adds another envelope to the junk pile. Licks his lips and wonders how this went from joking about eye fucking to slights about his relationships.

Armie _: There isn't anyone. Not now._  
Armie _: You don't have to talk to me, you know._

_T_ he junk mail gets tossed and Armie is left with his utilities bill. He knows the water will be high this month; he doesn't bother opening it.

Timmy _: i want to_

Armie _: Sure doesn't seem like it._

Timmy _: i dont really forgive people all that easily_  
Timmy _: maybe this would be easier in person_

Armie reads the two texts a few times. His brain meshes them together. Deletes the unneeded and repeats, "Forgive in person."

Forgive, like Armie needs to be forgiven. Like Armie is the reason for the last five years. The reason for the silence. His cheeks flush and he remembers the heat he felt when he first read Timmy's essay. When he realized that their relationship started as a game to Timmy. A game he won, in ever sense of the word. His body feels hot and before he can think it over, he starts typing.

Armie: _~~Why the fuck would I need to be forgiven?~~ _

And then he remembers the "in person," part. The offer to speak face to face, even if Timmy seems to expect something Armie won't give. He thinks, after everything, he shouldn't have to give in. Shouldn't have to give more of himself.

Armie: _What would be easier?_

He checks his e-mail. Confirmation for an engagement shoot. A reminder that he needs to make a decision on Italy. A quick note that there was a hoarder situation and fifteen new dogs at the shelter this week.

Timmy: _making up for lost time._  
Timmy: _what are you doing tonight_

Armie: _Watering my grass._

Timmy _: ...is that a euphemism_

Armie _: No, I have a patchy yard; I have to water it every night._

Timmy _: oof you know what those semicolons do to me armie_

Armie grins.

Timmy _: wait you have a HOUSE?_  
Timmy _: when the fuck did you buy a house?_  
Timmy _: or do you rent?_

Reading the texts feels like coasting to the end of a rollercoaster. Armie toes his shoes off and brings them to the small shoe rack by the door. Debates changing into gym shorts, but figures he should stay dressed in case he can be talked into going back to the city.

Armie: _I'm in my thirties. Yes, I bought a house._

He makes his way to the living room and lays down on the couch.

Timmy: _oof semicolons and a mortgage_  
Timmy: _youre killing me armie_  
_____

In the morning, Armie gets a call from an unknown number. It's Greta, asking if he could take pictures of the studio for their website. She offers to pay and he stops her immediately. Says he'll be nearby anyways, that it will just take a few minutes. He feels he owes it to her for not judging him too harshly the other day. For sticking with side-eyes and blatant stares instead of words that he could repeat instead of sleeping.

He tells her he can be there by one. He doesn't ask if Timmy will be there, but he's slightly relieved when she says, "Okay, it'll be just you and me then!" She sounds a bit too cheery and Armie wonders if she's always like this. He hopes she's not.  
_____

It doesn't take long to photograph the dogs. They're relatively docile, and Armie doesn't want to imagine why there are relatively few wagging tails. He tries to stay upbeat, to throw out compliments. But dogs don't hear things the way people do; a compliment is just noise if they haven't learned to associate it with love. None of them know commands to sit or stay, so Armie spends most of the day on the ground, trying to get pictures of their faces. Trying to capture a glimpse of what could be.

Afterwards, he stops to see Archie. He doesn't take him on a walk; he has to meet with Greta soon. But he sits in his kennel and lets Archie lick his face, his hands, his toes sticking out of his flip flops. Thinks it would be nice to do this in his backyard.

_____

Greta and Armie are alone in the studio. It's clean and quiet and Armie says, "You know, you really didn't need to make it look so--" he gestures around. Some of the tables are set up to look like people vanished in the middle of a project. He backs himself into a corner and brings his camera to his face. Click. "Apocalyptic."

Greta shrugs. She's been staying close to Armie. He assumes it's to stay out of the shot and he wants to tell her he's done this before. He knows what he's doing. But part of him knows he could say that and she'd still hover. He's glad she's not glaring at him anymore, though.

"I took a few pictures of the outside of the building," Armie notes. "Not sure if you can use them, but it might be helpful. The building certainly doesn't look like there's office space, so--"

"That's great," Greta cuts him off, and it feels like she doesn't care too much about the pictures. He takes a few close-ups of one of her table set-ups. Notices she's lingering behind him at one of the bookshelves.

Armie straightens his back and gives the room a once over. Brings the camera partway up to his face and teases, "Do you want to be the covergirl?"

Greta snorts and pulls a book off the shelf and ducks her head down. He notes that the book is plain, but polished. Looks like it hasn't been read, like it was taken from a box and put right on the shelf. "Definitely not. So, Nicole says you and Timmy used to be friends," she says. It's not smooth, but she says it so quickly that he hardly notices the sharp turn in the conversation.

"We used to be neighbors," Armie says. They used to be a lot of things, and he knows Greta is aware of that. "I'm done here, so I can retouch the pictures this weekend. Should I send them to Nicole's--"

Greta walks across the room, the book held firmly in both of her hands. In front of her chest like a shield. Her strides are long and, even though she's much shorter than Armie, she seems to tower once she gets close. He backs up towards the door where he left his bag. "Take your time," Greta says. "We'll be pretty focused on the show, so we won't have time to update the website for a bit. Listen, I was Timmy's teaching assistant his freshman year. And," she cocks the tip of the book to him. "I think you should have this."

He can read the title. West 10th: Fall 2014 Freshman Literature.

He rolls his eyes. "I've already got a copy," he says, and it's true, even if the title is slightly different. It doesn't change the story. He doesn't know where his copy--Timmy's copy, really--ended up in his house, but he never got rid of it. The essay is still alive somewhere: a closet, the basement, his attic. The copy Greta holds is clearly one that was meant for distribution. There's no plastic spine and the cover is glossy. It looks good on a book shelf. Would be something to be proud of, to show off, especially if your name was inside.

He wonders how many bookshelves their story is on.

Armie backs up to the door where he left his bag. "I really need to get going," he tries. He doesn't bother taking his camera apart. Just stuffs it in the bag, which won't zip properly; he carefully slings it over his shoulder. Licks his lips. Greta hasn't withdrawn the book. If anything, she's pushed it closer to him.

"Just take it," she says, and he feels like he can't say no. He reaches for the book. Sighs when Greta doesn't let go right away. "We all did stupid shit when we were kids, Armie."

She lets go of the book and Armie tucks it under his arm. He doesn't want his fingers on the pages, doesn't want to automatically flip to page eighty-six like he seems to do with every book now, like the page number is burned into his reflexes. Opening a book to page eighty-six feels like checking the time when it's 12:34; there is no reason for it to happen, but it makes him wonder if there's a different life running concurrently with his own and this is the overlap.

"He wasn't a kid," Armie confirms. He wasn't prepared to say the words and hardly believes they made it into the open. "He was--"

Greta rolls her eyes and turns away. She starts picking up one of the tables. "He was legal, but he was a kid, Armie. I'm not judging you. I know how Timmy is," she says. Throws over her shoulder, "I know how he was back then, too. And I'm just saying, as a friend of his and an acquaintance of yours," she grabs a stack of notebooks, straightens them, and then hugs them to her chest. Turns around and leans against the table. It squeaks slightly under her weight. "We all did stupid shit when we were kids," she repeats.

Armie nods, but he doesn't agree. He was an asshole when he was in high school and college, but he never used anyone. Not like that.  
_____

Armie tosses the book into the backseat along with his camera bag. Checks his phone.

Timmy: _free tonight?_

The text is sparse, like Timmy whittled away at words for too long. They'd texted on and off all of the previous night. Mostly friendly jabs, though Timmy threw a few sharp hooks that sent Armie staggering. Just when he thought they were on good terms, when Armie was sure they were close to starting over--maybe beginning again--and they were in the clear, Timmy would hit him with a reminder that this was not square one. That even if they made it back to square one, there would be deja vu with every step.

Armie drives home without responding. He needs a nap.

_____

Armie brings the book in and sets it on his kitchen counter. He doesn't nap, but he crawls under the covers in his bed and presses his face into a pillow. Remembers how he'd laughed this morning, how everything seemed fresh. Wonders what he'd been thinking. Had he really thought that they could pick up where they left off? Or maybe not where they left off. Had he thought they could go back to where they left off, rewind the tape a bit, and let the events play out differently? Would things have been different if he'd read the essay before he'd given all of his trust to Timmy? Would things have been different if Timmy had just told him about the essay? Or is the fact that the essay ever existed to begin with reason enough to know this is where they were always meant to be?

He grabs his phone.

Armie: _Sorry. Long day._

Timmy: _maybe some other time?_

He pictures Timmy sending the text quickly. Worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Maybe playing with his hair, curling a coil around his finger. He likes the image--really likes Timmy's longer hair--and is tempted to change his mind. To drive back to the city and get drinks tonight. To take anything Timmy wants to give him.

Instead, he rolls out of bed. Pulls the covers up and fluffs the pillow.

Back in the kitchen, he reaches for the book. His fingers find page eighty-six like he knew they would and he glances down at the words out of the corner of his eye, like he's watching a horror movie. He doesn't want to walk into this without protection, but his eyes can't find anything familiar. Can't find the words that have been burned into his mind for five years, present, even when he wasn't aware of them.

He flattens the book on the counter and furrows his brow. Double checks the page number. Reads a few lines about a girl on a road trip with her aging father. He shoves pages out of the way until he's at the index. Runs his finger along unfamiliar names, but doesn't find Timmy's. Turns back and forth a few pages.

The essay isn't there. It isn't revised and polished like the rest of the book. It isn't framed for eternity on bookshelves and in used book stores.

Armie picks up his phone.

Armie: _Where is his essay?_

While Armie waits for a reply, he saves Greta's contact information.

Greta: _Wouldn't let us publish it_  
Greta: _First freshman in decades to pull his essay_

Armie taps the corner of his phone against his chin. Closes his eyes.

It doesn't change anything. Not really. The essay still existed. It isn't a silent tree falling in a forest; he'd read the essay. He has the essay somewhere in his house. He knows that those words exist and when they were written, they were the truth.

He texts Timmy.

Armie: _How about tomorrow?_  
Armie _: I think you owe me a drink after all that underage drinking I let you do at my apartment._

Timmy _: pfft i don't owe you shit_  
Timmy _: im free after five._

_____

Timmy texts while Armie is watering his grass.

Timmy _: i think i should warn you that i'm a broke grad student_  
Timmy _: so no buying like real drinks tomorrow_  
Timmy _: we all can't afford mortgages and cocktails_

Armie _: I promise to only drink PBR._

Timmy _: woah lets not get trashy here_  
Timmy _: wyd_

Armie rolls his eyes.

Armie: _Watering my grass._

He snaps a picture of his lawn, trying to find a corner with the least amount of dandelions. He's not successful, but he sends it anyways before Timmy can ask if that's a euphemism again.

Timmy _: you need to mow your lawn_

Armie _: Can't. I'm worried it will mess with the roots. Everything is just starting to fill in._

Timmy _: hmm_  
Timmy _: too soon for me to say i'd like to mow your lawn ;)_

Armie snorts.

Armie: _Too soon._

Timmy _: i appreciate your dandelions_  
Timmy _: they're one of the earliest pollinators in the spring_

Armie turns the hose off and drops it to the ground. Grins as he texts back.

Armie: _I'm aware of this fact; I like the bees to know that they are always welcome at my home and in my lawn._

Timmy: _oh you think you can just throw semicolons, home ownership, and pollinator friendly plants in my face like that?_

Armie grins, but his jaw goes slack when a picture pops up. Timmy sprawled on a couch, his hoodie rucked up to his ribs. Revealing a pale stomach that looks slightly more toned than Armie's memory recalls. His hood is pulled up, but a few loose curls frame his face; his eyes are dark and lip wet with spit.

Timmy: _two can play that game, mr. hammer_  
Timmy _: also this way you can get your eye fucking out of the way tonight_  
Timmy _: no more doing that in public_  
Timmy _: it's indecent_

Armie swallows and lets himself stare at Timmy longer than he'd ever admit to anyone, even himself. Especially to Timmy. The longer he looks at the picture, the more he realizes that Timmy has changed. Not just the harsh lines of his ribs, the concave dip of his stomach. His hair.

But Timmy has changed, even though he still throws out one liners and flirtatious words like nothing. Even though he can still make Armie blush with a simple text. It makes Armie nervous about tomorrow night, makes him wonder how he can prepare. If he will ever be prepared.

He scrolls back up through their texts. Has to take a break from scanning Timmy's flesh. From falling into his eyes and wanting to bite his jaw. Remembers what Timmy said about forgiving Armie. He doesn't think he needs to be forgiven, but he is sorry.

Armie: _You're ridiculous._  
Armie _: Let me know where to meet you tomorrow night._  
Armie _: Or I can pick you up._

He hesitates. Debates sending the next text.

Armie: _Looking forward to catching up, Timmy. I've missed you._

He pockets his phone and picks up the hose. The front yard needs some work.


	15. Part Three.

Armie tries to sleep in, but he makes the mistake of checking his e-mail. He needs to make a decision about Italy by Monday morning. 

He drops his phone to his side and flops back against his next of pillows. Blinks up at the ceiling. It's not a big job, but it could lead to bigger jobs. A director (a friend of a cousin who used to be neighbors with the gallery owner's son or something of that sort; Armie had quit listening closely when he initially heard someone wanted to fly him to Italy for almost _three months_ ) wants Armie to do behind the scenes photography for an upcoming film. A love story. 

He'd sent Armie photos of possible locations and, immediately, Armie was drawn to the job. He'd never _wanted_ to go to Italy, but now he can picture himself biking along dirt paths. Trying to fit in with the locals or at least be an acceptable American. More than that, he pictured himself being somewhere else. Being someone else, temporarily. 

And while it would give him a change of scenery, both for himself and his lens, it would mean three months away from his regular, comfortable jobs. He'd have to make special arrangements to come back for the wedding. Would miss the pre-wedding bickering between Liz and Nick, the late night panic attacks that are sure to come (from both, but mainly Nick), the countless changes Liz will make only to revert back to her initial decisions. 

His lawn is just starting to look good. He should be able to mow it on Sunday and he has plans to get a few astilbe for the shaded area near the patio, though he can't decide on white or peach. And Archie. Who will visit Archie?

He goes to make breakfast. A fried egg on an English muffin. Some cottage cheese. While he drinks his coffee, he opens his laptop and pulls up the e-mail. 

~~_Hello Luca,_ ~~

~~_My apologies for the delay. It's a busy time of year for me and  
_ ~~

He leaves his laptop open like a to-do list.   
_____

Armie: _You still free tonight?_

The shelter is busy and when Armie mentions that to the new guy at the front desk, he gets a short, "It's a Saturday," response. "Dog or cat?"

Armie steps back. "I'm here to see Archie." 

The guy looks up from the computer. Looks Armie up and down. "Oh, is he a stray?" 

Armie shakes his head. "Sorry, we haven't met. I'm Armie," he says, holding out his hand. The guy just looks at it, so Armie places it on the counter. "I do the photography for the website. And I just visit Archie."

"Oh, my apartment doesn't allow dogs either," the guy mentions. He's back on the computer. 

"I own a house," Armie says, and it sounds stupid. He's glad he's not trying to impress this guy. "I just don't have time for a dog right now."

"You don't have time for a dog? And yet," the guy makes a gesture at Armie that reads, 'And yet, here you are, bothering me during your free time.' He looks towards the break room like he's seeking back up. "I'm not supposed to let random people just hang out with--"

"But I'm--"

"Whatever," the guy says. Grabs the keys from under the counter and leads Armie into the back. 

Today, Archie seems tired. When Armie unlocks his kennel and steps in, Archie just looks up from his spot in the corner. Perks an ear, but doesn't get up until Armie sits down and says, "Oh, we're not friends anymore?" He stands in front of Armie, stretches. Lets Armie rest his head against his muzzle. 

He doesn't take Archie for a walk or play catch. Talks to him in a low voice and scratches behind his ears. 

Right before he leaves, he gets a response from Timmy. 

Timmy: _yeah_

Armie tries not to read too deeply into the trite, delayed response. If Timmy didn't want to see him, he'd just say so; in five years, Timmy seems to have learned to put everything on the table. Armie likes that, but it makes one word responses seem that much shorter. 

"Thanks," he calls to the new guy at the front desk on his way out. Rolls his eyes when he doesn't even look up. 

Armie: _I'm coming over._

Nick: _you're helping me with these dumb vases then_

_____

"Like, being nice flirting or _flirting_ flirting?" Nick asks. He straightens the ribbon on the neck of the vase in front of him, then glances over at Armie's work. "You know what assumptions can make." He doesn't say anything about Armie's vase, but he reaches across the dining table and fiddles with the loops. Clicks his tongue. 

Armie shifts to his side and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Brings up the picture from Timmy. "I mean flirting," he says. 

Nick's eyes close and he blindly swats the phone away; his fingers graze his vase and Armie reaches out to snatch it before it tips over. Liz would kill them if they broke anything, and Armie is seriously thinking about Italy. He doesn't want to die before then. "I don't need to see that," Nick says. "We're not all into undera--"

"He's twenty-four now," Armie reminds him. He pulls his phone back and glances at the picture quickly. Licks his lips and can almost taste Timmy's skin. Remembers the first time his tongue traced along Timmy's ribs, his sternum. The way Timmy's spine dipped and arched when Armie's mouth found his nipple. "And he was never underage, asshole." 

"Okay, so you're sending nudes and--"

Quickly, Armie interjects, "I have _never_ sent him nudes--"

"Sure," Nick says. He grabs both of their vases and places them in the cardboard box by his feet. It was empty when Armie got here and is now half filled with their handiwork. "Then, let me ask: what are your plans for tonight?"

That's easy. Armie knows the answer to that. "Drinks. I'm waiting for him to text me with details." He leaves out the part about Timmy's short text today. Reminds himself that Timmy said he wouldn't be free until after five. 

"Yeah, drinks, no shit." Nick licks his lips. Sits back in his chair and searches for Armie's eyes. Raises his eyebrows when they connect. "What are your actual plans? Drinks and then moving on? Drinks and then making plans for next week? Drinks and fucking in the backseat of your car? Where do you actually see this going?"

Armie wasn't aware this might be more than drinks. "This isn't a fucking interview, Nick. I doubt Timmy is going to ask for my ten year plan."

"Yeah, okay, let me ask you this." Nick leans forward. Armie wishes he had ribbons to fiddle with. "What do you think Timmy's plans are?"

Armie shrugs. Wants to say, 'He's twenty-four, Nick. He shouldn't have plans,' but if he's being honest, he wants Timmy to have a ten year plan. Wants to be a bullet point on Timmy's to-do list. 

He looks at his home screen before sliding his phone back in his pocket. No message from Timmy. He thinks it might be better this way. Better if Timmy doesn't text. If tomorrow morning he gets a brief, "sorry shit came up" text that Armie could ignore. That he could ignore before deleting Timmy as a contact. He could live with that, couldn't he? The ball was in Timmy's court and if he makes a shit pass, then it's no longer Armie's problem. 

"And not just tonight, but like. What are his _plans_?" Nick details. Draws out the word like Armie might need to look it up. "Because you need to be prepared to turn him down if needed. And you can't just ignore him this time."

"I didn't ignore him," Armie says, but it even sounds like a lie to him. He's not surprised when Nick laughs. "And who says I'd him down?" 

Nick reaches for the spools of ribbon. Shrugs as he unravels a few inches before grabbing the scissors and cutting the ribbon loose. "I said if needed." He tosses one of the ribbons across the tables to Armie. Bends at the waist to grab two unfinished vases from the floor; slides one across the table. He wraps the ribbon around the neck of his vase, then pauses. Licks his lips and blinks at Armie. "Just try to think things through beforehand this time, okay?" When Armie answers with silence, Nick kicks his shin under the table. 

Armie flips him off and starts tying the ribbon. "You worry too much."   
______

Timmy: _k AJ's @ 8?_

Armie is halfway down the stairs at Nick and Liz's building. It's just after five o'clock; Armie had almost given up on Timmy texting him. Was planning on driving around the city for a bit, maybe getting Taco Bell. For sure, if he hadn't heard from Timmy by six, he would head home. 

Seven at the latest. 

Armie: _Thought you said five._

He presses send before he can doubt himself. Before he can think about how pathetic that really sounds. 

Timmy: _said after five_  
Timmy: _eight is after five_  
Timmy: _if you've got other plans it's not a big deal armie_  
Timmy: _we can just wait another four years_

Armie: _Five years._

Timmy: _right._

He's not sure how Timmy is able to change the entire mood of a conversation with a period. Loves it and despises it all the same. 

Outside, it's windy and Armie has to physically push the building's door shut to keep it from flapping open. His shirt catches in the wind and he smooths it down. 

Timmy: _k well let me know either way_

Armie: _Text me the address._

He starts walking to his car. Debates turning around and asking Nick if he wants to get dinner. If he can just hang out there until seven. Armie scrolls through his contacts quickly; there isn't anyone he can ask to get dinner. Anyone he wants to get dinner with. 

When he gets to his car, he doesn't unlock it. Keeps walking until he comes across a restaurant that seems busy enough that he'll go unnoticed. He hates eating alone. 

_____

 

When Armie sees him, he reminds himself that Timmy isn't his to touch. 

Armie had to park a few blocks away. Timmy is outside the bar; he's far enough away for there to be time to imagine Timmy _is_ Armie's to touch. That they're meeting after work, after a long day. That Timmy had some business to do in the city and Armie thought it might be fun to surprise him with a date night. Imagines, for a moment, that Timmy looks up from his phone. Once, quickly, then back down. His brain would register that the person coming towards him is Armie and he'd put his phone away and stand up straighter. Smile. 

Would this fantasy Timmy start walking towards him, or would he make Armie come all the way? Selfishly, Armie would want him to stay in place. Awkward as it might be (because Timmy would fidget under Armie's gaze. Stroke the back of his neck, scratch his calf with his opposite toe, bite his lip and try to look away but be drawn back, back, back), Armie would want to see him--all of him--for as long as possible. In Armie's mind, he'd never get sick of looking at Timmy, even after years of staring at him. It would be a joke. An inside joke between them where Armie would say, "Let me look at you," while they're in the kitchen or passing one another in the hall. And Timmy would roll his eyes, but then pose. Do a little spin. Maybe that would be it. Armie would grin and kiss his cheek and continue on his way to the bathroom. 

Or maybe Timmy's next move would be to press Armie against the fridge and kiss him. To press the words, "Let's go to bed," against Armie's lips, push them into his mouth, assuring him that they wouldn't be sleeping. Maybe not fucking, but Armie would at least get a chance to look at him. 

_Stop it,_ Armie thinks to himself. He cracks his neck and walks a bit faster. Tries not to stare at Timmy; is thankful when Timmy doesn't look up from his phone. Doesn't register that Armie is heading his way. _It's just drinks. Catching up. Moving on,_ he reminds himself. 

Timmy is not his. That is not the life they made. 

Without looking up, Timmy dryly says, "You're late," and Armie rolls his eyes. Watches as Timmy slides his phone into his pocket, stands up a bit straighter. When he looks at Armie, he starts at his knees and works his way up. Pausing for milliseconds that seem like days. Feel like hope. 

"Couldn't find parking," Armie explains. 

Timmy's eyes find Armie's; they look invigorated after their journey. He smiles and nods to the bar, then leads Armie inside. 

The bar is too bright and there aren't enough televisions. He follows Timmy past the bar. Notes that he nods at the bartender and holds up two fingers. Points towards the back and keeps walking; Armie follows. Starts to say that there are two spots _at_ the bar. That they could sit out here, in the open. In front of everyone and near a television to stare at if the conversation lulls. But Timmy keeps moving. Walks to the back corner where there's a small booth. Tucks himself into the corner spot. 

When Armie slides in across from him, he can't help but feel hidden. 

Timmy's laugh is sharp and quick. He looks away when Armie looks up. "What?"

Timmy shakes his head and leans back. "Nothing, nothing." He looks back at Armie and says, "Sorry about having to meet so late." 

"It's not late," Armie says, even though he just spent the last half hour driving in circles around the city, listening to the baseball game even though he has no idea who was winning when he finally parked. 

"I mean, later than expected," Timmy offers. Leans forward, but keeps his hands tucked under the table. His biceps press against the wooden table. Armie notices how the edge cuts into his flesh. Wants that edge to be his fingertips, his teeth, but pushes that away. Focuses instead on the lines people have carved into the tabletop. Makes out a few names, numbers. A smiley face. "I was helping my roommate move and she has more shit than I thought."

"Not a big deal," Armie says, even though he's still feeling the look of pity from his waiter as he quickly ate a meal alone. Shoveled food in his mouth to just get it over with, to get out of there, even though the whole reason he had been there was to waste time. "Where is she moving to?"

"Just across town. Our lease is up and--" Timmy rolls his eyes. Rushes, "It's expensive, so I'm moving back in with my parents."

"Nothing wrong with--"

"--Just until I finish school. You know, get an actual job and--"

"--a lot of people move back in with--"

Timmy's hands are suddenly up, fingers vertical on his neck, seeming to push his head back. To the ceiling, he hisses, "So fucking stupid," and then he looks back across the table. To Armie, says, "Sorry, this is just weird."

Armie nods. "A little." Adds, "I was nervous you were going to bail."

"I almost did," Timmy admits. He looks towards the bar and looks thirsty. "I thought I could do this, but apparently I'm still just a dumb kid because--"

"You're not a dumb--"

His hands are on the table and Timmy leans forward. His voice has a hurried lisp to it. "I'm still so mad." 

"I can tell," Armie says. He folds his own hands on the table. Imagines he could reach across and slide his hands over Timmy's. Stop them from shaking, from leaving shadows of sweat on the table. "You've been a bit touchy since we--"

"You just left me," Timmy says, and his voice cracks as a guy approaches and places two beers on the table. Armie watches as Timmy grabs his wallet, pulls out a credit card. He thinks about how Timmy is moving back in with his parents and knows he should insist on paying, even though it will make Timmy mad. He keeps his wallet in his pocket. "Should I open a tab?"

Armie shrugs and reaches for the beer. He's not sure what he was expecting. Maybe hoping this could be a fresh start, similar to buying his own house, starting his business. But those were things he could do on his own (with a little push from Liz, of course.) No one was stopping him from putting in an offer on a house in the suburbs, but Timmy is not a mortgage. He's not a camera or a bride needing someone to capture her good side. 

Timmy can say no. 

"Yeah," Timmy says to the waiter. "We might be here for a while." 

It's not PBR, Armie knows, and he takes a long sip. Debates asking Timmy what it is, just so he can have time to think of something to say. A way to respond to 'You just left me,' because in five years, Armie never felt like he'd abandoned Timmy. Maybe he hadn't handled the situation well, but even looking back, he probably wouldn't have changed anything. Nothing Timmy could have said would have changed Armie's mind. 

"I'm sorry you're mad," Armie says after he swallows. "But, I was pretty--"

"What I did was stupid and awful, but you didn't even let me talk," Timmy starts, and it feels like it's been days since Timmy walked out of the bedroom and saw Armie reading the essay. It feel fresh, and Armie's tongue tastes bitter. His throat is dry and he closes his eyes quickly. Can only see Timmy, days before his eighteenth birthday, winking at Armie as they passed in the lobby. Slowly licking the lip of an envelope in the mail room while making direct eye contact with Armie. He can feel Timmy taking him apart with his fingers, his tongue, silently begging him to take all his walls down, just so Timmy could turn every brick into harsh prose. 

He opens his eyes. "I wasn't really in the mood to talk after that." 

"Okay, but I was," Timmy says. He circles his palms around his beer and pulls it closer to his side of the table, but doesn't take a drink. "You went through my shit and then didn't even give me a chance to explain and--"

"What was there to explain? Your essay spelled it out pretty clearly," Armie says. He smiles before taking another drink and he's pretty certain Timmy didn't need to open a tab. They won't be here long. "You wanted to fuck your pathetic neighbor and you did. Were your classmates impressed?" He wants to drown his words in his glass, but instead he pushes on. "You want me to apologize for going through your shit? For finding out exactly how you saw me? Finding out that it was all some sort of game to you? Well, I'm sorry." 

Tension lines Timmy's jaw; the edges are severe and Armie still wants to feel the sharp bones. Wants nothing more than to run his thumb along Timmy's face until he is soft and pliable. But that was always his downfall with Timmy: he wanted to take and have everything, even when he knew he shouldn't. "It wasn't a _game_. Not at that point," Timmy says. 

"At what point?" 

Timmy sits back and looks away. "When it wasn't just convenient for you to be with me." His gaze is down, pointedly looking at the empty spot next to him. Armie remembers Timmy's harsh laugh when they sat down. Realizes Timmy wanted him to sit there. Wanted Armie closer and maybe--hopefully?--wanted to be touchable. 

_Convenient?_ Armie thinks. Says, "What?" accept it sounds like, 'Excuse me?' 

Timmy rolls his eyes and trains them on Armie. Points a thin finger at Armie and he can feel the accusations--the insinuations--before Timmy even speaks. It makes Timmy's words that much clearer. More obvious. "Don't play dumb. You were using me at first, too. None of this would have happened if we weren't neighbors. I was an easy experiment and--" 

Oh. 

"That's not true," Armie responds without taking a breath. He eyes the open space next to Timmy and lies. Tells himself he can keep his hands under control. Before he can tell himself no, Armie slides out of the booth. Swings himself around the table and scoots in next to Timmy. He gets close, so close that he can feel the warmth of Timmy's thigh. The tension in his body that somehow radiates through the air. It's not something he ever felt from Timmy, who was always wide open, spread out, available. "You were never an _experiment_." 

Armie hesitates, then touches Timmy's shoulder. He exhales when Timmy doesn't flinch. "Armie," Timmy says, but he doesn't trail off and definitely doesn't continue. Turns to look at Armie and where there is usually an eye roll, there is the slight shift of his gaze. Down to Armie's lips, then back up to his eyes. 

"I was dumb for a lot of reasons, but I wasn't dumb enough to--" Armie starts, but he doesn't even like the phrase. Doesn't want to finish the sentence because it is just a reminder that Timmy had been using him, even if it was temporary. He slides his hand to the back of Timmy's neck and grins when he feels a slight tremor below his skin. Wants to lower his voice, but remembers every time he waited for a sleepy silence to fill the room. Remembers each time Timmy told him he loved him, but Armie bit his tongue. "I really loved you, Timmy."

This time, it's his turn to dare a glance down to Timmy's lips. He lets his gaze linger too long and by the time he looks back at Timmy's eyes, the apology is spreading across his face. 

"Don't," Armie says. He laughs when Timmy's brows knit together. Smooths his thumb along the back of Timmy's neck. Presses into the first hard notch of his spine. He doesn't want an apology, not anymore. 

The apology washes away and Timmy says, "You never told me that," and Armie realizes that Timmy never knew. What Armie thought was so obvious--was painfully clear--Timmy never knew. 

Armie rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Well, I did." Nods. "And I should have told you, but it was a weird time for me and--" 

Timmy's hand on his waist--tentative at first but harder when Armie doesn't pull away--cuts Armie's words off. "Don't," Timmy says before leaning in. 

For a brief second, Armie thinks Timmy is going to kiss him. That this is the moment that can erase five years and bring them back together. He quickly swipes his tongue over his lips and leaves them parted, closes his eyes, and then realizes Timmy is just going in for a hug. A stiff hug, harsh and hard and unlike anything Armie has ever received from Timmy. Even though he's tried not to, Armie has been imagining what their first real contact--if anything at all--would be like. Each reiteration was soft and comfortable. Felt like all the pieces falling into place. 

But reality is not comfortable. It's a rigid spine and a wooden booth that hurts the backs of Armie's thighs. Reality is Timmy starting to pull away just as Armie tries to hold him tighter. He feels like he should let him go, but instead, Armie turns his head, his lips ending up between the tip of Timmy’s ear and the mess of his curls. He breathes in (knowing this could be the last time he’s here, that he gets to be this close, that he gets to be slightly irked by the way Timmy’s hair sticks to his lower lip) and doesn’t hesitate before exhaling, and admitting “I want you to come home with me.” Remembers his old tactics for finding out if Timmy was going to spend the night: ‘Will you need a ride to school?’ or 'Do you need coffee for the morning?’

He should have asked him to stay more often. Should have told him he wanted him to stay.

“I shouldn’t,” Timmy whispers, but he rests his head on Armie's shoulder. Not for long, but long enough for Armie to feel like they're on even footing. He let's Timmy pull back. Lets his hand fall to his lap. Awkwardly rubs his palm against his jeans before reaching across the table to retrieve his beer. They both drink, but Timmy swallows first. Says, "We'll see, okay?"

Armie nods. Swallows and scoots back a few inches. "Should I--" he gestures to the other booth, but Timmy's hand quickly slaps down on his thigh. Holds him in place. "Okay." 

"So, what happened to your friend Nick?" Timmy asks, and Armie shakes his head. Takes a deep breath, which prompts Timmy to chuckle. "Oh God, this is going to be even better than I'd imagined, I'm sure." 

Armie nods. "So," he begins and starts to tell him all about vases, crushed glass, and seating arrangements. 

_____

Afterwards--

After another round of beer and Timmy telling Armie all about Saoirse trying to talk him out of coming tonight. Admitting that he almost let her convince him to stay home, but then remembering that time, years ago, when his mom grounded him. "Do you remember that? I for sure thought you would never talk to me again," Timmy says, to which Armie replied, "Not possible." After arguing about who would pay the tip when Timmy closed out his tab and deciding that next time ( _Next time,_ Armie's mind echoed repeatedly) Armie would pay for everything. After a few glasses of water and half-assed attempts to leave--

They're outside and Timmy asks, "Where did you park?" 

"You don't have to walk me to my car," Armie teases. "I'm perfectly capable of--"

Timmy holds out his hand. Announces, "I'm driving." 

"I thought you said you shouldn't," Armie pushes, but he pulls his keys from his pocket. Dangles them a few inches above Timmy's outstretched palm.

Timmy looks up at him. Blinks. "I said I shouldn't. I didn't say I wouldn't. Now where did you fucking park?" he repeats, impatient. 

"Do you even have a driver's license?"

Timmy rolls his eyes and snatches the keys.


	16. Part Three.

Timmy parks in the garage. 

Before Armie can tell him to park on the street, Timmy reaches up to the remote hooked on the sun visor. Presses the larger of the two buttons and turns onto the short driveway in front of Armie's garage.

"You don't have to--" Armie starts. Wants to insist he can turn the car off and park here. That Timmy could back up and park on the street.

The door inches open and Timmy thrums the fingers of his left hand on the wheel. His right arm rests on the center console. "Oh, did you want me to back in?"

Armie shakes his head. "No, this is fine," even though it's not fine. He didn't park in the garage until two weeks after moving in. It felt weird to have a space that was not only his, but a space surrounded by his _things_. Boxes he has yet to unpack and sort. A dusty bike he keeps meaning to clean off and use. The dog kennel he picked up for free on Nextdoor.

Even stranger is the feeling of having a spot all to himself _and_ a spot on the street. Like invisible lines from his house to the curb marking where his car should go. Where his guests' cars should park. That absurd feeling of stolen intimacy when someone parks in front of your house but enters another.

Timmy lets the car roll forward, then taps the break. Asks, "You sure? I did pass my test with flying colors, Armie. The instructor said he'd never seen anything like it before."

Armie rolls his eyes. "Just park in the damn garage," he laughs. Swats at Timmy's thigh with the back of his hand. 

"I'm not even kidding," Timmy continues. "They put my picture up at the DMV and--"

"You're so annoying," Armie says. Reaches across his body to unbuckle his seat belt and watches as Timmy carefully pulls into the garage. 

"I can't be that annoying," Timmy says as he turns the car off. Opens his door before taking the keys out; Armie realizes Timmy never put on his seat belt. Or maybe he took it off without Armie noticing. Is that possible? There's a slight but obnoxious alarm when someone doesn't have their seat belt isn't on. Did that function fail or could Armie have been distracted? Distracted watching Timmy back up with his tongue between his teeth. Noticing that he puts his turn signal on too early. Completely shaken by his own senses when another car ran a stop sign and Timmy slammed on the brakes. Put his arm out to stop Armie from flying forward. Rolled through the intersection and slid his hand to Armie's thigh instead of retreating to his own side. 

"You _can_ and you _are_ ," Armie says as he steps out into the garage. Stretches, even though it had taken less time than normal to get home. Timmy knows shortcuts. Explained to Armie that he dated a girl out here. Not for long, no. Just long enough to learn how to avoid stop signs and the long light on the way past the business district. He'd finished by saying, "It wasn't serious," and Armie believed him. Believed him even more when he rolled through the next turn and said, "Haven't really dated anyone since you." Believed him because Timmy didn't look at him. Just straightened the wheel and kept going.

(Believed him because he wanted to, because even if it wasn't the truth and Timmy had been serious with someone--had parked in front of their house and walked in their front door without knocking--that tonight, he has only ever been serious with Armie.)

"I'm not, but even if I _were_ , I think you'd still have asked me to come home with you." Timmy's voice is playful as he follows Armie to the door leading into the house. It's hard to recognize him as the same person from earlier. The same person behind trite texts that made Armie doubt himself, doubt this night, doubt them. 

And maybe Timmy is playful, but Armie is serious when he bites his tongue. Halts words that might put him on a platter because, 'Of course I would have asked you. I need to see you in my home--see your socks on the unswept floor and your frame in a doorway-- so it will feel like home even after you have gone. After you have left me,' seems too serious for whatever this is. 

He opens the door and says, "Well, this is my place."  
____

Inside, Armie kicks his shoes off as Timmy asks, "Are you a shoes on or off kind of homeowner?" But, he's already bending down to untie his laces. Black boots with red soles that look like they're important to Timmy. Like he's proud of them.

"Whatever, but I haven't vacuumed this week," Armie says dumbly, followed by what he hopes is an innocent, "Can I get you something to drink?"

Timmy lines his boots up on the top rung of the shoe rack Armie has stocked with worn flip flops and tattered sneakers. Thinks he should probably invest in a pair or two he's proud of. "I'll have whatever you're having," Timmy says as he stands up. Pushes his hair back from his face and then looks around. Holds a fistful of curls towards the back of his head and Armie wonders if he can fit his hair in a ponytail. If he puts his hair up when he writes, when he reads. Wonders if he leaves hair ties all around his apartment. If--in an alternate reality--Armie would vacuum and get elastic stuck in the spin brush. An argument that would escalate too quickly and end with a silent night. Forgotten in the morning.

"Beer it is," Armie says and makes off to the kitchen. Listens to the slide of Timmy's socks on the hardwood floor. "Just one, though," he says. "Or, I mean," he corrects as he opens the fridge. Leans over to grab two bottles from the bottom shelf. "I can only have one so I can drive, but you can--"

Timmy takes one of the bottles and walks to the drawers by the fridge. Opens the top drawer, then closes it. The second drawer. Finds the bottle opener. "Don't do that," Timmy singsongs. Snaps the cap off his beer and tosses the opener to Armie. "No more of that shit."

"Right," he says. Echoes, "No more of that shit," but it sounds like the first time he swore. Repeating his mother after she stubbed her toe on the stairs. Using words too big for his mouth. Words that the muscles in his tongue and lips don't know how to transition between.

Armie collects their caps and tosses them in the garbage. Nods and sips the foam that collects at the head and reminds himself of all the times he wished he had just asked Timmy to come over, to spend the night, to be his. He loops his finger securely around the neck of the bottle and drops his hand to the side of Timmy's body, pressing onto the kitchen island. His arms are long enough that he doesn't have to touch Timmy, doesn't have to hold him in as he hovers. Closes his eyes and reminds himself that Timmy can leave, that Uber exists, that he can ask for a ride after a beer.

God, he's going to need a few beers after this. Armie can't stop himself from blushing--can't force himself to open his eyes. Worried that Timmy's expression will be one of disgust or regret when Armie says, "I want you to spend the night. Even if you leave in the morning and don't let me make you breakfast and you delete my number." He pauses. Adds, "I do have a guest bedroom, too," quickly. As an afterthought, an apology.

When he opens his eyes, Timmy isn't smiling at him, but he looks happy. "Show me your guest bedroom," Timmy demands.

____

Armie shows Timmy the guest bedroom. Laughs when Timmy tells him to hold his beer and jumps into the middle of the full size bed. Bounces a few times and tries out a pillow. Sits up and says, "I think we can do better than this," before standing back up, grabbing his beer from Armie, and walking across the hall to the master bedroom.

He doesn't bother with the light and when Armie follows him and flips the switch, Timmy is sitting on the edge of the bed. His beer is on the floor and his legs are spread wide. "Better?" Armie asks.

Timmy nods and spread his legs wider. Looks up, up, up as Armie walks closer so he can keep his eyes trained on Armie's face. "Better," he admits. Bounces once, twice, as Armie slots himself between Timmy's knees.

He feels exposed. Even more so when Timmy doesn't blink, doesn't look away from Armie's face as he leans in and presses his nose to the left of Armie's bellybutton. When Timmy uses a soft hand to slide Armie's shirt up an inch, two inches. Three, which is the magic number and Timmy opens his mouth against Armie's skin. Swipes his tongue against his flesh and--

"This is okay?" Timmy asks. "Do you like this, still?"

Fuck. Armie didn't know he could blush there. His abs tense and he feels Timmy chuckle. The cold huff of his breath. He wants to defend himself, but then there's teeth, and he locks in on Timmy's gaze. Realizes that even with teeth and laughter, Timmy is the one on the ledge here. Ready to both fall and take the fall.

"Yes," Armie breathes out.

Timmy lets Armie's shirt drop. Asks, "Why would I delete your number?" Bounces on the mattress and leans back. 

Armie shrugs.

"You're so dumb sometimes. What's your laundry situation?"

Armie pretends not to notice how Timmy adjust himself when he stands up. Hopes Timmy sees him do the same.

____

On the way to the laundry room, Armie stops. Feigns distraction and asks Timmy to hold his beer. Once Timmy's hands are full--beers held down at his thighs--Armie presses two solid fingers to Timmy's chest and--

(Timmy's broad, he's bigger than Armie remembers, but he still feels slight under his fingers. Yet, somehow, like he could push Armie away, could pull him down and either leave him there or straddle him. Take control or take away everything, everything, everything.)

\--pushes him against the hallway wall. Next to a picture he took at the playground down the street. At night when it was empty and unused, but clearly still useful. Still playful. He doesn't take it slow, but he doesn't make thinks sloppier than he needs to as he kisses Timmy's cheek, his lips. Groans when Timmy's jaw drops like a broken hinge and Armie can taste everything he's been missing. Press his tongue against Timmy's as if he's waiting for a fight. Not finding one and running the tip of his tongue along the roof of Timmy's mouth as his hands come to Timmy's cheeks, his god damn jaw, and he holds him in place while he fucks his mouth with his tongue. Slowly, painfully slowly. Pushes his head back and wraps his fingers around the back of Timmy's neck to cradle his skull, to get lost in a mess of curls, to feel that Timmy isn't falling into his hands but pressing up into the kiss.

Armie pulls backs. Says, "Okay," and then takes his beer from Timmy. "So, the laundry is this way."

He pauses when he doesn't hear Timmy's socks shuffling along the floor behind him. Turns around to see Timmy pressed to the wall, head rolled to the side. Eyes following the path his feet haven’t. Mouth damp and open. "We could just--" he bites his lower lip. Eyes flash backwards to Armie's bedroom. Shakes his head. Rolls his eyes, but smiles. "Yeah, no. Laundry, right. Show me that laundry room."

____

They get distracted. Timmy gets distracted, is distracting, is a fucking distraction.

But, they get distracted. Distracted by the sliding doors out to the patio and, "Shit, this is nice," Timmy says. Doesn't ask, just pushes the glass open and steps out. He walks to the edge of the patio, his toes curling over the side of the last paver like he wants to press his feet into the grass. Slide his toes through the blades and let it tickle his soles.

Timmy looks over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows. “I begged my parents to get us a yard like this when I was growing up.”

Armie stands next to him and shrugs. “I don’t use it much.”

“I’d live back here,” Timmy comments. Shrugs, “I’d get like eight dogs.” He thinks about it and then decides, “No, maybe only two. Eight would be a lot of poop.”

“I don’t think you’d be able to walk eight dogs at once, anyways.”

Timmy knocks his shoulder against Armie. “I have many talents, Mr. Hammer.”

“I wasn’t aware you’re a dog whisperer.”

Timmy takes a quick sip of his beer. Armie can see through the brown glass that it’s close to empty; he doesn’t want to prematurely ask if Timmy wants another. “Not just dogs,” Timmy grins against the lip of the bottle. “I’m just good at getting what I want.”

Armie rolls his eyes and sits down in one of the patio chairs. He splurged and bought the type that swivel; when Timmy sits down in the chair next to him, he’s able to swing his knees closer. Bump against Timmy’s thighs, then twist away. He sets his beer down on the table; it’s half gone. It’s been long enough since his beers at the bar that his head feels clear. Feels open when he says, "I'd like a dog or two."

He tells Timmy about Archie. How he likes to have his rump scratched but he worries about not having time for him. Says, "I feel like I have so much to do," and is pleased when Timmy doesn't equate that to chores. To dishes and grocery shopping, mowing the lawn and taking back library books.

He's so happy when Timmy listens and leans forward. Says, "Yeah, like you have to make up for wasted days?"

"Right," Armie says without explaining how many days he has wasted or what they were wasted on. "I just feel like I have all these things I want to do and it's not fair to Archie to have to just sit and wait for me to do them."

"He's in a fucking kennel right now, Armie. I'm pretty sure he'd be okay with--" Timmy cuts himself off. Leans back in his chair and tips his bottle back. Finishes it and then says, "Your life isn't a to-do list, Armie."

"I don't think it's a--"

Timmy stands up abruptly. Asks, "Can I grab another?"

Armie nods. Finishes his own and follows Timmy to the kitchen.

_____

The kitchen seems darker and Armie flips the second switch. Lights above the cupboards flick on and Timmy stops with his hand on the refrigerator's handle. Looks up and scans the edges of the cupboards as the dim light brightens the room just enough to make it seem friendly. Alive. He settles his eyes on Armie, who shrugs. "Nice, right?"

Timmy nods. "I like that." He opens the door and grabs two more beers. "Since you don't have windows in here it's--"

"Cozy," Armie finishes for him. He hands the bottle opener over to Timmy. "It's the only room in the house that doesn't really get natural light."

"Should get house plants," Timmy says. "For the rest of the house, obviously. Not the kitchen." He pops the caps of the first beer and hands it to Armie.

"Not good with plants," Armie says.

Timmy tosses the bottle opener back on the counter. "I am," he says before asking if they can sit down. "I'm tired," he says, but Armie hasn't noticed a yawn all night.

____

The couch is one of the few major items to make the trip from the city. Everything else, Armie sold on Craiglist or gave away for free to neighbors. Nick tried to take a few items, but Liz politely declined.

They have different styles.

Timmy's leaning back against the arm of the couch, his legs stretched out. Beer wedged between his thighs and arms folded over his chest. He wiggles his toes and says, "The couch doesn't really match the Ikea showroom you've got going on in here." 

Armie likes the minute rocks of the Poang chair he's in. Nick told him he's too big for the style, but he likes them anyways. Has a pair in the living room and one in his office. It helps him think, keeps him moving but centered. And he likes the lines of it. Simple and easy. 

"They don't need to match," Armie says. "They just have to _go_." 

"I mean, this is a nice couch," Timmy says. Smooths his hand over the fabric. "But it's old." 

Armie rocks, rocks, rocks. Bites the tip of his tongue harder than he should, but not hard enough, because he notes, "Funny, you never had complaints about it before," even though he's unable to look at Timmy while he says it. Remembers their first time on the couch. Timmy underneath him, pressed into the soft cushions, but pushing up against Armie. 

At the time, it had seemed like no part of Timmy was off limits. His tongue, his wit, his hair. It was all for Armie to take and touch. It's a good memory, but good in a way that makes the present seem dull. Makes him want to live in the past. Live in the past because what happened in the bedroom and what happened in the hallway may be fleeting, but the past is forever and you get to pick and choose what you remember. Armie wants to remember the way Timmy blinked at him in the mornings. The smell of his stale breath and the feeling of his bones when they wrestled for control of the remote. 

Armie has been waiting for Timmy's sharp tongue and when it doesn't come, he seeks eye contact. Gets a familiar expression and a punch to the gut. It's the same vacant look Timmy had five years ago on that same couch, beneath him, when Armie had touched his cock. Made his intentions clear. 

Fuck. 

He wishes he'd turned the television on for background noise, because his voice is loud when he asks, "You didn't, right?" Timmy cocks his head to the side and his eyes focus. The blank look is gone, and Armie reaches further. "Have any complaints?" 

He watches as Timmy reaches for his beer. Brings it to his lips. He swallows once, twice, then turns a bit to clumsily place the bottle on the end table behind him. The liquid has barely sunk below the bottle's neck. "What?" he asks and he smiles, but Armie can tell when someone is stalling. When someone is asking a question so they can get their thoughts in line while they ignore the words coming out of your mouth. 

He's never seen Timmy think twice about his words; maybe it's something new. A sign of maturity. 

"You wanted to be there, right?" 

"On the couch?" Timmy laughs. Lets the sarcasm drip. "Yeah, Armie, I loved making out on your old, smelly--"

"Timmy," Armie whispers. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. Rolls his bottle between his hands. The condensation soaks his palms and he wishes it might slip. Spill on the floor so he has to rush and get a towel to clean it up. Maybe the bottle would break and the shards would scatter and he could say, "Stay away, watch your step. Don't come any closer." 

Timmy pulls his legs in. Rests his chin in the sharp dip between his kneecaps. He nods, asks, "Want to know something stupid?" He doesn't give Armie a chance to say no. "I think I wrote that essay as a way to convince myself I didn't really want to be there as much as I did."

The sentence is clumsy and Armie repeats it until it makes sense. Probably gets a few words wrong, but understands the basic statement. Takes a breath and admits, "I haven't let anyone else fuck me," and it sounds crass, but he'd say it again if Timmy doesn't understand him. 

Timmy lowers his gaze. Wiggles his toes. His eyelashes look long and Armie wishes he was close enough to count them. "No one else?" 

Armie shakes his head even though he doubts Timmy is looking at him. "No one." It's the truth. He has come close--so close--and there have been fingers and toys. But rarely. Rarely, because then he is forced to relive that day, reading the same words. Hearing Timmy's voice crack as he began to ask, "Armie what are you--" from the doorway. Began to realize that he had fucked up, that all of this was fucked up. "I couldn't without thinking about you."

"You didn't want to think about me?"

"Not if I couldn't have you," Armie says. 

He sets his beer on the end table and stares at the blank television. 

Timmy scoots forward and hesitates. Leans down and rests his forehead softly against Armie's temple. When he licks his lips, his tongue bumps Armie's ear and it's too much; he wants to push Timmy away. Tell him to knock it off, to stop. He thought he could have this one night, but now he knows he won't be able to stop at one night. He will want another and another until he has collected every night Timmy has to give him. 

"You can have me," Timmy whispers. The words tickle Armie's ear and sound like alcohol talking. But then, Timmy doubles down. "If you want me, I want you." 

Armie wraps an arm around Timmy's waist. Clumsily pulls Timmy closer. Laughs when their knees knock and Timmy's jaw smashes into his cheek. When Timmy flails an arm. Steadies it on Armie's shoulder and tries to get a grip. Digs his hand into flesh, but ultimately falls into Armie. It's a mess--they're a mess--and Armie loves it. 

When Timmy is settled, Armie presses his lips to Timmy's cheek. Lets his head fall into the crook of Timmy's neck and nods. Opens his mouth to say something, but is met with a wet lump in his throat. 

Instead, he nods and pulls Timmy closer. Closer, closer, closer. Takes a few deep breaths to clear his throat and when it feels safe, says, "I want you," and thinks maybe they deserve more than one night. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe he will get it. 

_Don't,_ Armie warns himself. 

_____

Later, Timmy yawns, but it looks forced. He asks, "Is it okay if I stay the night?"

And Armie wants to laugh. Wants to say, 'Yes, please, please, give me this night,' but says, "Yeah, that's fine." Timmy is still in his lap and they have been watching _Cheers_ re-runs. Timmy has never seen it, so he laughs harder than Armie. 

The unwind and Timmy stands. Stretches. They link hands as Armie leads Timmy to his bedroom. Turns off lights along the way and doesn't feel as though he needs to fill the air with words. Hears the crickets and thinks it's peaceful. Thinks he could relive this for a lifetime and that would be fine. This would be fine. He could have this night and nothing else and be able to move on because at least Timmy existed in his home, at one time. And even if he moved and bought a new home, he could place memories of Timmy in it and it would be okay. He would be there, even if Armie was with someone else. 

He could move on, but only in the way you move on after college. After a car accident or a stubbed toe.

When they get to Armie's bedroom, Timmy says, "I didn't bring any pajamas," like he's been preparing this joke for years. Armie says, "I don't sleep in pajamas," and Timmy is on him, lips reaching for him, but only finding Armie's chin. His leg wrapping around Armie's knees, body falling into him and relying on Armie's strength to hold him up. 

Armie tilts his head down and finds Timmy's lips. Pulls whatever weight he can find close to his body. An arm, a thigh. Almost falls to the ground but manages to steady himself against the edge of his mattress. Wants to throw Timmy down and--

and--

and, to be honest, Armie just wants to press against him. To feel the rise and fall of his chest, hear him make small talk into the awkward silence. Smell his breath in the morning to know he is human. Wants to stay silent longer in order to hear Timmy talk. To hear him ramble. 

God, he's fucked. 

Armie pushes back and moves until he is standing. Timmy seems to have found his feet and he lets Armie guide him across the room. Press him against the wall, all while their lips clumsily slide together. Not exactly kissing but just being close. Just wanting to taste, even a little. A tiny bit. 

Armie takes a step back. "We shouldn't," he says with no intent to list the things they shouldn't do. They shouldn't have gotten drinks, come back to his place. Toured the house

"Oh, we're well past shit we shouldn't be doing," Timmy laughs. Armie looks down, but he immediately wishes he'd looked anywhere but Timmy's socked feet. Socked feet that Timmy has been dragging on the hardwood floors while Armie showed him his empty guest bedroom, his laundry room ("Stacked washer and dryer. Nice," Timmy noted as Armie blushed and pushed him back into the hallway), the full pantry.

Socked feet that inch closer to Armie's. That look worn and dirty like a pair Armie might pick up off the floor and toss into the hamper later.

"You should've kept your shoes on," Armie says.

Timmy laughs. Leans up to press his lips to Armie's cheek. "What I should do," he says innocently, but his hand moves from Armie's waist to his outer thigh. Inner thigh. Whispers a touch to his cock, "Is sleep in the guest room." 

Armie tries to pull Timmy closer but realizes he may be being pushed away. That this was just a night. That this is just temporary. "Yeah, that's,"

Timmy talks over Armie's bullshit. Says, "I want to take this a little slower." He kisses Armie's lips. Dry but long. "If that's okay with you."

Armie nods. Blinks once. Twice. 

"Yeah."

____

Later--

(After they made out on Armie's bed and pressed their clothed cocks into rigid thighs and thrust until they were close, so close, but fuck we shouldn't we really shouldn't I can be good, I can be so good, Armie pleaded, even though his hand was tight in Timmy's hair and he wanted nothing more than to take this miles further than they agreed on.)

\--Armie checks his phone. He can't sleep. 

Timmy: _you jerking it?_

Armie: _You're so weird._

Timmy: _no like i'm asking if you are bc iw ant to_

Armie: _wasn't_

But his hand travels down to the elastic waistband of his boxers. 

Armie: _Laundry day is tomorrow, so have at it._

He slips his hands under the elastic.


	17. Part Three.

Timmy's already awake. He's in his boxers, leaning against the counter, spooning cereal into his mouth when Armie walks into the kitchen. Nods towards a bowl of cereal that's in front of one of the bar stools; the milk is next to it. "I didn't pour your milk," Timmy says. "Wasn't sure how long you'd sleep."

Armie slides onto the bar stool and uncaps the milk. Pours it until the cereal starts to float a little, then quickly puts the milk down. Takes a bite and says, "I normally pour my milk first, then the cereal."

He hears Timmy stop chewing. Looks up. "You're the worst kind of person," Timmy says. "Like, that is such a boner killer you don't even understand." He finishes chewing and swallows. "No, that's not true. I still have a boner for you, but an angry one. Your milk pouring techniques have turned my--"

"I'm kidding," Armie says. Notes, "But I do cut my sandwiches lengthwise instead of diagonally."

Timmy wrinkles his nose and brings his bowl to his mouth to drink the leftover milk. He puts his bowl in the sink and then puts both hands on the counter. Keeps eye contact with Armie as he leans over. Closer, closer, closer until Armie can smell the chocolate on his breath. Says, "You're disgusting," before kissing Armie once, twice. Straightens up and drums his hands on the counter. "Now, hurry up. We have to get going by noon."

Armie shakes his head and smiles. "It's like eight o'clock," he says. Then asks, "Wait, what's at noon?"

Timmy rinses his bowl and then puts it into the dishwasher. "I checked and that's when the shelter opens. If you don't adopt Archie, I'm going to, and that's a threat and a promise."

Armie's fingertips feel hot. He looks around; he's not ready for a dog. "I can't--"

"You're dumb," Timmy says. "You'll figure it out. If you really love this dog, you'll figure it out."

It feels like they're talking about more than just the dog, so Armie nods. He does love Archie. If they leave now, they can go to the pet store before noon. Buy a bed and some toys. Get some food. He has to remember to ask what they feed him at the shelter. He's heard that it's not good to switch their food abruptly.

But, wait.

"Wait, why do we need to be in a rush if it's--"

Timmy wipes his hands off on his boxers and the fabric pulls against his cock. Armie swallows another bite; he's rushing, even if he doesn't know what for. Timmy turns to him and rolls his eyes. Says, "Because I want you to fuck me first," like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Armie takes an extra big bite. Looks at his cereal. He's not even hungry. He swirls his spoon around in the milk. "I thought we were taking it slow." He pushes his bowl away and stands up. He grins when Timmy gives him a nervous glance. Doesn't want Timmy to doubt any of this for a moment, so he says, "But I suppose we did wait a full night."

"It was a very long night," Timmy says. He comes around the counter. Closer, closer, until they're chest to chest. Toe to toe. He looks up at Armie. Looks up and smiles and Armie brings a hand to his face. Cups his cheek and grins when Timmy's lips part like he's expecting a kiss. Wants to kiss him, but--more than that--wants to just look at him. "What?"

Armie shrugs. Runs his thumb along Timmy's cheekbone. Likes how big his hand is compared to Timmy's face. "I just missed looking at you."

Timmy rolls his eyes. Lifts up onto his tiptoes to try and kiss Armie, but Armie holds him back a few inches. "Please," Timmy says.

"I just want you to know," Armie bites at this upper lip for a moment to stifle a laugh. "That I eat pizza with a knife and fork now." And then he kisses Timmy, soft, while Timmy slaps at his chest. Kisses him back, but feigns a protest.

When Armie lets him go, Timmy says, "You're the most disgusting person I've ever met," and kisses Armie again, again, and thank god, again.

_____

Armie has never had his mouth on someone like this. Has never really thought about putting his mouth on someone this way, not because he didn't want to, but because it seemed too intimate. Like something you only do once you've run out of ways to show someone what they mean to you. Armie wonders if that's what Timmy was trying to tell him all those years ago.

They make it to the bedroom, barely. Armie is certain the only thing that kept them from fucking on the kitchen floor was the knowledge that the lube was in his bedside drawer. But once they made it to the bedroom, any semblance of taking things slow vanishes. Armie can't go fast enough. Pushes his boxers down quickly before stepping out of them and beating Timmy's own hands to his boxers. Puts his mouth on Timmy's and kisses him twice. Once softly and the second time open mouthed and hard, like he's trying to fit every missed opportunity from the last five years into this one kiss.

Quickly realizes he could spend all day doing this. But then they'd be late. 

And then he moves down his body, at first wanting to kiss every inch of Timmy, but reminding himself that they have all the time in the world for that. He could chart Timmy's body and rediscover every part of it systematically over however long they have left on this earth because, if Timmy will allow him, Armie is not letting five years go by again. Hell, he might not even let five days go by.

He sucks Timmy's cock slowly, though. That's one thing he won't rush. Doesn't care that Timmy laughs when Armie moans around him. Moans as he takes another inch, and another, and another. "And you wanted to wait," Timmy breathes out. Armie pauses. Averts his gaze up at Timmy and blinks at him. Flips him off, then uses his hand to stroke Timmy's thigh, his side, his belly. Likes being able to feel Timmy's body fight off squirms and thrusts. Wants to tell him that it's okay. That he can fuck his mouth, that he can push himself deeper.

But Timmy stops him before he can say that. Says, "Jesus, fuck," and pushes Armie away. Throws his head back on the pillow and admits, "You're going to make me come way too quickly. We'll have to go again this afternoon." Clumsily rolls onto his belly.

Armie snorts. "So impatient," and then slides his hands up the backs of Timmy's thighs. Across his ass. Let's his thumbs meet between Timmy's cheeks, then pulls him apart and leans down. Spits on his hole, which causes Timmy's body to jerk and mouth gasp Armie's name.

Timmy recovers. Jokes, "Literally the most disgu--" but stops when Armie presses his tongue flat against him. Pulls back so he can circle the rim. Feels Timmy's muscles tense, tense, tense, then relax and he sinks his tongue inside. Closes his eyes and fucks him earnestly until Timmy's body can't fight off the squirms and thrusts anymore and is rolling his hips into the mattress, then back onto Armie's face. Again and again and, "You need to stop, Armie, you need to stop, you need to--"

Armie does. Sits back and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Watches as Timmy's hands fist in the blankets. Clench and release like he's using the movement to catch his breath. In and out, in and out. Armie grins. Softly slaps the side of Timmy's ass and is pleased at the light jiggle this creates. "Okay, we can stop," Armie says.

Timmy turns his head. Mouth open. Pants, "Please."

"Please what?"

He waits for a joke, a sassy retort, an eye roll. Instead, he gets a quiet, "Please fuck me, Armie. Don't make me beg." He sounds desperate.

So, he does. First with his fingers, drunk on the view of Timmy pushing back on his fingers. Rising up to his knees and using one hand to hold himself open for Armie. Rocking back and forth with Armie's thrusts and sighing when Armie kisses his ass cheek, the back of his thigh, the crease of his knee. Coming to a still when Armie adds another finger. Hissing at the slide and slowly, so slowly, starting to rock against his fingers. 

And then with his cock. He asks Timmy to roll over and leans down to suck the head of his cock quickly. It tastes like salt and timmy Timmy TIMMY and he almost doesn't come up for air. Then he remembers the tight heat around his tongue and wants that on his cock. Wants to fall back inside Timmy like he's catching up on time. 

(When he reaches for a condom, Timmy grabs his wrist. Red-faced, says, "You don't need to," and Armie says, "Yeah?" and Timmy nods. "I mean, you don't need to, right?" And Armie laughs. "Definitely not." Timmy spreads his legs and Armie drops the condom. "Okay, cool.")

Timmy gasps like it's been a while. Like everything is too much and not enough. His mouth opens into an "o" that doesn't relax until Armie's cock is entirely inside, until Armie lays down on top of his body and buries his face into the crook of Timmy's neck, until Timmy's arms are around his neck, and Armie is whispering, "I love you, I love you, I love you," while he slowly rocks his hips back and forth, back and forth. 

Timmy doesn't reciprocate the words, but Armie hears them anyways. Hears them in the way Timmy moans and squeezes his arms around Armie's neck. Hears them when he pulls back to see Timmy and just watches him blink, blink, blink. Catch Armie's eye and nods. "Fuck, Timmy, I love you," he says before hiding his face in a pillow. 

Timmy comes between them. Armie barely gets a hand on him and he's spilling between their bodies. Coating his own abdomen and arching up, like he wants to catch every drop on his skin. When Armie comes, he pulls out (too late, or maybe perfectly times, some of his come spurting against Timmy's hole, probably getting inside his body and Armie loves that, loves knowing that) and jerks off on Timmy's stomach. Watches their come mix and slide together on TImmy's skin. 

Timmy exhales. Groans when Armie sits back and reaches out like he wants to pull him closer. Instead, resigns himself to swiping his fingers through their come on his belly and bringing it to his lips. Sucking them clean and going back for more, for more, always for more. 

"I'm disgusting?" Armie asks. Says, "You're disgusting," and then leans down to lick him clean. 

____

Armie has held Archie's leash dozens of times, but he's never held it in the parking lot. He's never guided him to his car and opened the back door and said, "Up."

He's never had to deal with a stubborn head tilt quite like this. 

Timmy laughs. "Oh, shit," he says the third time Armie pointedly gestures at the back seat. Says, "UP."

"I am _not_ lifting you into the car," he claims, but three minutes and countless attempts later, he picks Archie up and places him on the bed they just bought at the pet store. 

On the way back to the house, Timmy says, "You're already so whipped," and Armie blindly reaches out to shove his shoulder. 

He waits until they're close to the house before he asks. "So, I'm the photographer for Liz and Nick's wedding." 

"Cool," Timmy says. Looks out the window. 

Armie sighs. "Do you want to come?"

He rolls to a stop and then passes through an intersection. 

"I mean, during the ceremony and some of the reception I'll have to be working, but--"

"When is it?"

Armie tells him and then turns left. His house is ahead. He parks in front and turns to Timmy. The car heats up quickly without the air on. "You don't have to. I just thought it might be--"

Timmy shrugs. "Is there an open bar?"

Armie nods. "Of course." 

Timmy sighs, dramatically. "Then I guess so. Does this mean I need to wear a tie?" 

He doesn't waste time. Armie pulls out his phone and calls Nick. Says, "Hey, so I know you're already working on the seating arrangement, but--"

"Liz is going to kill you. You're already the buffer between her--"

"Well, my boyfriend wants to come."

Silence. Timmy coughs. Armie looks over and sees that Timmy is trying--and failing--to stop a smile from spreading across his face. Armie reaches into the backseat and pets Archie. 

Finally, "Remember what I said about thinking things through? Like, before making--"

"Oh, and I have a dog now," Armie says. 

Nick sighs. "Of course you have a dog and a boyfriend." He sounds resigned, but hopeful, if that's even possible. Armie thinks it is. Resigned to the idea that Armie will probably always jump into things too quickly, even if he tried to be good for so long. But hopeful, perhaps, that this time it will work out. Armie might be projecting his own thoughts, though. "Tell Timmy I say hi."

"Will do." He hangs up and opens his door. Gets out and realizes, only when Timmy does the same, that Timmy was waiting for him. He likes that. "Nick says hi," he says over the roof of the car. 

"Does he still not like me?" Timmy asks. He opens up the door to the backseat and grabs a bag of toys. The food. 

Archie is looking at Armie through the window. He looks different, like he knows Armie isn't leaving this time. "He likes you, he just thinks I'm an idiot," Armie says as he opens the door and grabs Archie's leash before he can jump out. He puts his bed under his arm and walks towards the house. 

"Well, you are an idiot, sometimes," Timmy says. He follows Armie and Archie to the front door and doesn't take his shoes off this time.

_____

They take Archie for a walk. It's getting dark and Archie stops at every single tree, every fire hydrant, every stick. Sniffs. Pees. "You need to train him to walk next to you, I think," Timmy offers. 

"He's fine," Armie says, though constantly having to tug Archie as a reminder that they're going on a _walk_ is a bit rough on his elbow. 

"So," Timmy starts, and Armie thinks this is it. He's going to say he needs to get back to the city, going to say that the declaration that they are dating was too much. That it was too soon and maybe they should slow down, maybe they should stop, maybe they shou-- "I think you should go to Italy."

Armie stops. Italy. _Italy_. How does Timmy know about Italy? He remembers his computer on the counter. He turns to look at Timmy. Lets Archie tug his arm forward. "Timmy," he starts. Licks his lips and almost smiles when Timmy looks up at him, his face awash the realization of what he's done. "Were you snooping on my computer this morning?"

"I wasn't snooping!" he says quickly, though he clearly realizes he was snooping. "I just wanted to check the weather and my phone is dead and you had the e-mail up and--"

Timmy grins. Leans down and kisses Timmy's forehead. "I don't care. I'm just teasing." He reaches down to lace their fingers together and lets Archie pull them down the sidewalk. Archie must have noticed the stroller ahead. "So, you're trying to get rid of me already? Sending me to Italy?"

Timmy's thumb swipes the back of Armie's hand. "No, I just think it's a good opportunity for you. And I can watch Archie and the house while you're gone." 

"Oh, so you're just being nice to me now so you can get at Archie and my luxurious master bedroom."

"Basically." 

They walk a few more blocks in silence, then Archie starts to slow down. They loop back to the house and go through the gate to the backyard. Armie lets Archie loose and he goes to lay in one of the last splashes of sunshine in the backyard. "So, are you going to go?"

Armie sits in the grass and grins when Timmy sits close, so close. Leans against Armie's body, rests his head on his shoulder. Picks a dandelion and starts to roll the stem between his fingers. "You'd really watch the house for me? Like, actually stay all the way out here?"

Timmy snorts. "Yeah, such a burden. I wouldn't have to live with my parents and I get to chill with Archie?" Quietly, he adds, "And we can pick up wherever we leave off."

Armie presses his lips together. Swallows and reaches over to rub Timmy's knee. "Then, yeah. I guess I should go."

_____

 

Later, 

(After Armie makes dinner and Timmy insists on doing the dishes and Archie begs at Armie's knee while he eats. After Timmy says, "I should probably go home, yeah?" and Armie rolls his eyes and says, "If you want, but I'd like it if you stayed another night," and Timmy smiles. Says, "I was hoping you'd say that." After they lay in bed pretending like they're just going to sleep, but their hands can't stop moving and their kisses keep straying to body parts. After Timmy eases inside Armie's body, sinks into him so slowly that Armie slaps his hip and says, "I'm not above begging." After Timmy comes inside him and Armie thinks about how they each have a little bit of one another now and _that's cheesy, i can't tell Timmy that_ but then he does and Timmy sighs happily. Says, "I love you, Armie.")

Armie closes his eyes and leans back against Timmy's body. It's firmer than the pillows he used to pretend with and Timmy's body is almost too warm. Sticky with sweat (and probably come). "It's just too hot," he finally admits. Turns around to face Timmy and puts a few inches between them. 

"Good night," Timmy says. Grins before leaning in and kissing Armie. Nipping at his lower lip before letting Armie take control.

The kiss is good. It's really good.

**Author's Note:**

> bartbarthelme on tumblr.


End file.
